954 
C444 


IC-NRLF 


BY 


C.  HADDON  CHAMBERS 


UNWARY  EDITION 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  St.,  New  Yort 


BILLETED. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts,  by  F.  Tennison  Jesse  and  H.  Harwood.  4  males, 
5  females.  One  easy  interior  scene.  A  charming  comedy,  constructed 
with  uncommon  skill,  and  abounds  with  clever  lines.  Margaret  Anglin's 
big  success.  Amateurs  will  find  this  comedy  easy  to  produce  and  popular 
with  all  audiences.  Price,  60  Cent3. 

NOTHING  BUT  THE  TRUTH. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males,  6  females.  Cos- 
tumes, modern.  Two  interior  scenes.  Plays  2^  hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth— even  for  twenty-four  hours?  It  is— 
at  least  Bob  Bennett,  the  hero  of  "Nothing  But  the  Truth,"  accomplished  the 
feat.  The  bet  he  made  with  his  business  partners,  and  the  trouble  he  got  into— 
with  his  partners,  his  friends,  and  his  fiancee— this  is  the  subject  of  William 
Collier's  tremendous  comedy  hit.  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  can  be  whole-heartedly 
recommended  as  one  of  the  most  sprightly,  amusing  and  popular  comedies  that 
this  country  can  boast.  Pnce>  60  Cents' 

IN  WALKED  JIMMY. 

A  comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Minnie  Z.  Jaffa.  10  males,  2  females  (although 
any  number  of  males  and  females  may  be  used  as  clerks,  etc.)  Two 
interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2l/2  hours.  The  thing  into 
which  Jimmy  walked  was  a  broken-down  shoe  factory,  when  the  clerks 
had  all  been  fired,  and  when  the  proprietor  was  in  serious  contemplatir 
of  suicide. 


Jimmy,  nothing  else  but  plain  Jimmy,  would  have  been  a  Wtf^s  figure 
had  it  not  been  for  his  matter-of-fact  manner  his  smile  and  his  everlasting 
hmnanness  He  put  the  shoe  business  on  its  feet,  won  the  heart  of  the  girl 
clerk,  saved  her  erring  brother  from  jail,  escaped  that  place  as  a  permanent 
boarding  house  himself,  and  foiled  the  villain. 

Clean,  wholesome  comedy  with  just  a  touch  of  human  nature,  just  a  dash  of 
excitement  and  more  than  a  little  bit  of  true  philosophy  make     In  Walked  Jimmy 
one   of   the   most   delightful   of   plays.    Jimmy    is    full    of   *Je   religion   of   We     the 
religion   of  happiness    and   the   religion   of  helpfulness^   and   he    so  permea 
atmosphere  with  his  "religion"   that  .everyone  is  happy -The g  spin :  o  ^»£™s™' 
good  cheer,  and  hearty  laughter  dominates  the  play.    There  is  not  a  dull  mo 
in  any  of  the  four  acts.    We  strongly   recommend  it.  rnce,  00 


MARTHA  BY-THE-DAY. 

An  optimistic  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Julie  M.  Lippmann,  author  of 
the  "Martha"  stories.    5  males,  5  females.    Three  interior  scenes, 
tumes  modern.    Plays  2l/2  hours. 


(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Request 


PASSERS-BY 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

BY 
HADDON  CHAMBERS 


REVISED,  1919,  BY  C  HADDON  CHAMBERS 
COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  C.  HADDON  CHAMBERS 

All  Rights  Reserved 


CAUTION :— Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby 
warned  that  "PASSERS-BY,"  being  fully  protected 
under  the  copyright  laws  of  the  United  States,  is 
subject  to  a  royalty,  and  any  one  presenting  the  play 
without  the  consent  of  the  author  or  his  authorized 
agents  will  be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided. 
Applications  for  the  amateur  acting  rights  must  be 
made  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New 
York.  Applications  for  the  professional  acting  rights 
must  be  made  to  Messrs.  Sanger  &  Jordan,  Times 
Building,  New  York. 


NEW  YORK 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


LONDON 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26    SOUTHAMPTON    STREET 

STRAND 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of 
this  book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first 
having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right 
or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play 
publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  produc- 
tion, recitation,  or  public  reading  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment 
of  a  royalty  of  Fifty  Dollars  for  each  performance,  pay- 
able to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York, 
one  week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is  given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the 
play:  "Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French  of  New  York." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows: 

"SECTION  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep- 
resenting any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  compositions,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof, 
such  damages,  in  all  cases  to  l>e  assessed  at  such  sum,  not 
less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dol- 
lars for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court 
shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or 
persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  con- 
viction shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one 
year."— U.  S.  Revised  Statutes:  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


(2.44 
f 


PERSONS  CONCERNED 


MR.  PETER  WAVERTON  (27) 
WILLIAM  PINE,  his  man-servant  (40) 
NIGHTY,  a  cabman  (60) 
SAMUEL  BURNS,  a  tramp  (36) 
MARGARET  SUMMERS  (25) 

THE  LADY  HURLEY,  Waverton's  half-sister  (45) 
Miss  BEATRICE  DAINTON,  Lady  Hurley's  niece  (23) 
LITTLE  PETER  SUMMERS  (6) 

MRS.  PARKER,  Waverton's  cook-housekeeper  (60) 
PERIOD  :  Our  own  times 

ORIGINAL  PRODUCTION 

The  first  production  of  Passers-by  was  made  at 
Wyndham's  Theatre,  London,  under  the  manage- 
ment of  Messrs.  Frank  Curzon  and  Gerald  du 
Maurier,  on  the  evening  of  March  29,  1911,  with  the 
following  cast : — 
MR.  PETER  WAVERTON  .  MR.  GERALD  DU  MAURIER 

PINE MR.  GAYER  MACKAY 

NIGHTY MR.  GEORGE  S HELTON 

SAMUEL  BURNS  .     .     .   MR.  O.  P.  HEGGIE 
MARGARET  SUMMERS    .  Miss  IRENE  VANBRUGH 
THE  LADY  HURLEY  .     .  Miss  HELEN  FERRERS 
BEATRICE  DAINTON  .     .   Miss  NINA  SEVENING 
LITTLE  PETER  SUMMERS  Miss  RENEE  MAYER 


278 


PASSERS-BY 


ACT   I 

SCENE:  A  handsome  sitting-room  in  a  bachelor's 
apartments  on  the  first  floor  of  a  house  in  Pic- 
cadilly, opposite  the  Green  Park.  It  is  obvi- 
ously the  room  of  a  man  of  comfortable  means 
and  good  taste.  The  decoration  and  furniture 
are  of  the  Adams  period.  (For  details  of  scene 
see  accompanying  plan.) 

(Note. — This  plan  is  absolutely  essential,  and 
can  be  copied  from  the  Dickworth  (London) 
publication.) 

TIME:  It  is  about  half -past  ten  at  night  in  the 
winter,  and  there  is  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  room. 

At  rise  of  curtain  stage  is  in  darkness,  save 
for  the  reflection  through  the  windows  of  the 
lights  in  the  street  below. 

PINE,  who  is  smoking  a  cigar,  is  up  L.C.,  look- 
ing out  of  window.  Suddenly  he  flings  the 
window  open  and  calls  across  the  road. 

PINE.  Nighty!  (Slight  pause.  As  the  call  re- 
ceives no  response  he  whistles  in  a  peculiar  way. 
This  apparently  attracts  attention  and  he  waves  his 
arm,  inviting  the  person  signalled  to  cross  the  road. 
After  another  slight  pause,  during  which  he  watches 
NIGHTY  cross  the  road,  he  bends  out  of  the  window 
and  speaks  to  him.)  Come  along  up!  (Slight 
pause)  Oh,  yes,  it's  all  right.  (He  withdraws  into 
the  window,  which  he  closes.  PINE  then  goes  down 

5 


6  PASSERS-BY 

R.C.,  switches  on  electric  light,  then  crosses  up  to 
sideboard  and  brings  down  tray,  on  which  are  de- 
canters, syphons,  and  glasses.  As  he  comes  down 
there  is  a  knocking  on  outer  door;  he  places  tray 
on  table  down  R.  and  exits  R.IE.,  and  the  slamming 
of  the  outer  door  is  heard.  A  few  moments  later 
PINE  re-enters,  accompanied  by  NIGHTY.  PINE 
switches  on  more  light.  NIGHTY  is  a  typical  Lon- 
don cabman  of  about  sixty,  weather-beaten,  broad- 
shouldered  and  slightly  stooping.  His  face  is  at 
once  cheerful  and  shrewd,  and  he  has  the  quality  of 
being  deferential  without  any  sacrifice  of  his  natu- 
ral pride.  He  is  very  warmly  clad.  As  he  enters 
the  room  he  takes  his  hat  off. 

PINE.    (Behind  table  Rj    Pretty  cold  outside! 

NIGHTY.  (Down  n.)  Nippy,  I  call  it,  but  I've 
known  worse. 

PINE.  A  little  something  to  warm  the  chest 
wouldn't  hurt  anyway. 

NIGHTY.  Thank  you,  kindly,  Mr.  Pine,  I  could 
do  with  it,  and  that's  a  fact.  (PiNE  busies  himself 
with  decanter  and  glass)  Me  and  my  old  horse 
are  just  going  to  have  our  supper. 

PINE.  I  saw  you  drive  up  to  the  shelter.  Had 
a  good  job? 

NIGHTY.  (R.  of  table  Rj  Fair!  Stout  party 
with  a  couple  of  kids  to  Ravenscourt  Park — 'Am- 
mersmith  for  short — an  extra  bob  for  crossing  the 
radius,  and  nothing  for  all  the  way  back.  Your 
'ealth,  Mr.  Pine.  (He  drinks  from  the  glass  PINE 
has  handed  to  him,  then  puts  glass  on  table) 

PINE.    Same  to  you,  Nighty !    (He  drinks) 

NIGHTY.    Prime  stuff !    Goes  straight  to  the  spot. 

PINE.  Have  a  cigar?  (Points  to  box,  which  is 
open,  on  table) 

NIGHTY.  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Pine,  a  drop  of 
whisky  is  only  a  drop  of  whisky,  and  no  one  would 
grudge  it  to  an  old  cabman  on  a  cold  night.  But 


PASSERS-BY  7 

when  it  comes  to  them  things.  (Picks  lip  box) 
Lord!  it's  like  eating  money.  Couple  o'  bob  a 
touch,  I  shouldn't  wonder!  (Puts  box  back  on 
table) 

PINE.  You  wouldn't  be  so  squeamish  if  you'd 
been  brought  up  in  service.  (He  gives  NIGHTY  a 
chair,  then  crosses  down  L.) 

NIGHTY.  (Sits  chair  L.  of  table  R.)  We're  all 
in  service,  Mr.  Pine,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest. 
The  difference  between  you  and  me  is  that  you  only 
take  orders  from  one  boss  while  I  take  'em  from 
everybody  that  hires  my  cab. 

PINE.  (By  sofa  L.)  All  the  same  I  often  envy 
you  your  job. 

NIGHTY.  Why  ?  You've  got  a  good  boss,  haven't 
you?  I  only  knows  him  by  sight,  but  he  looks  all 
right. 

PINE.  Oh,  he's  pretty  well.  Anyway  he  doesn't 
count  his  cigars  and  measure  his  whisky  as  some 
of  'em  do.  He's  open-handed  enough — but  you 
never  make  no  headway  with  him.  I've  lived  with 
him  three  years  now,  and  I  don't  know  him  as  well 
as  I  know  you.  ( Crosses  R.  a  little )  Is  he  human? 
That's  what  I  ask. 

NIGHTY.  We're  all  human  when  you  pull  the 
mask  off. 

PINE.  (Crosses  R.  to  below  table)  It'd  take 
'ydraulic  power  to  pull  his  mask  off. 

NIGHTY.  Maybe  he's  had  reason  to  fix  his  tight 
on.  You  never  know.  fPiNE  helps  him  to  more 
whisky)  Thanks,  only  a  drain.  I'll  have  to  keep 
m'  eyes  bright  to-night.  It's  very  thick  down  at 
Knightsbridge  and  if  I'm  a  judge  you'll  have  it 
black  up  here  presently. 

PINE.  (Sitting  on  edge  of  table  R.)  I've  never 
known  so  much  fog  as  we've  had  this  year. 

NIGHTY.  (Rising)  Well,  I  must  pop  off.  I'm 
going  to  take  my  old  'orse  'ome  after  supper,  before 


8  PASSERS-BY 

it  gets  too  thick.  (Through  the  window  the  fog  can 
be  seen  gathering  in  eddies.)  See,  it's  creeping  up 
a  bit  already.  (The  noise  of  a  latch-key  in  a  door  is 
heard  outside) 

PINE.    (Startled)    Good  Lord ! 

NIGHTY.    What's  the  matter  ? 

PINE.    That  can't  be  the  guv'nor. 

NIGHTY.  (Comes  down  c.  a  little)  Why  can't 
it? 

PINE.  I've  never  known  him  to  come  in  before 
one. 

NIGHTY.  (With  a  significant  look  at  the  cigar 
PINE  is  smoking)  I  wouldn't  go  nap  on  that  if  I 
was  you. 

(PiNE  picks  up  cigar-box,  hastily  crosses  L.  and 
places  it  in  drawer  in  cabinet  L.,  then  he  throws 
the  remainder  of  his  cigar  into  the  fireplace.  At 
the  same  moment  enter  PETER  WAVERTON.  He 
is  a  good-looking,  well-set-up  man  of  27.  The 
expression  on  his  face  is  at  once  grave  and  in- 
different. It  is  the  expression  of  one  who  re- 
sents rather  than  enjoys  life.  He  is,  however, 
capable  of  a  rare  and  very  winning  smile.  He 
raises  his  eyebrows  in  momentry  amazement 
when  he  sees  the  two  men  in  his  room.) 

WAVERTON.  (R.)  Well,  I'm  damned!  (Leaves 
door  open) 

NIGHTY.  All  I  can  say,  m'lord,  is  yer  don't  look 
it. 

WAVERTON.    Don't  call  me  m'lord. 

NIGHTY.    Very  well,  guv'nor,  but  some  likes  it. 

WAVERTON.  I  don't!  My  name  is  Waverton. 
Who  are  you? 

PINE.  (By  fireplace  L.)  Beg  pardon,  sir,  it  was 
a  liberty,  I  know,  but  I  asked  him  in.  It's  Nighty, 
the  cabman. 

NIGHTY.     So  called,  guv'nor,  because  I've  been 


PASSERS-BY  9 

doing  night  work  for  thirty  years.  Nq  offence,  I 
'ope,  sir! 

WAVERTON.  (Ironically)  I  trust  you  have  been 
suitably  entertained  in  my  regrettable  absence,  Mr. 
Nighty  ? 

NIGHTY.    The  best,  guv'nor — thank  you  kindly. 

WAVERTON.  (Cross  behind  table,  R.)  A  little 
more  whisky? 

NIGHTY.  Much  obliged,  sir,  enough's  as  good 
as  a  hogshead,  so  I'll  just  'op  along.  (Cross  R.  he 
salutes  WAVERTON  and  goes  to  the  door,  then  he 
turns  and  says  gently)  I  should  be  sorry  to  think, 
guv'nor,  that  through  'is  kindness  to  me — Mr. 

WAVERTON.  Good  night !  Pine,  show  Mr.  Nighty 
the  way.  (Exeunt  PINE  and  NIGHTY  R.  i  E. — leave 
door  open.  WAVERTON  walks  to  the  mantelpiece 
L.,  and  glances  at  the  remainder  of  the  cigar  that 
PINE  has  thrown  into  the  fireplace.  The  noise  of 
the  outer  door  closing  is  heard.  He  gives  a  gesture 
of  disgust.  Enter  PINE,  R.  i  EV  closes  door,  then 
crosses  up  R.,  gets  small  tray  there — crosses  down 
to  table  R.  and  takes  up  the  glasses  that  have  been 
used.  WAVERTON,  by  fireplace)  In  taking  my  to- 
bacco and  whisky,  you  exceed  your  duty,  Pine. 

PINE.     Yes,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  In  using  my  room  to  entertain  your 
friend  you  permitted  yourself  a  gross  liberty. 

PINE.    Yes,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  And  in  throwing  away,  half -smoked, 
one  of  my  best  cigars,  you  committed  a  crime. 

PINE.  Yes,  sir.  I  hope  that  you'll  allow  me  to 
apologise,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (With  angry  emphasis)  I'll  do  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  I'd  rather  receive  a  blow  than  an 
apology  from  any  man  at  any  time.  I  thought  I 
could  trust  you.  It  seems  I  can't.  You  must  find 
another  place. 


io  PASSERS-BY 

PINE.  Yes,  sir.  (He  goes  to  the  door  R.  2  E., 
carrying  the  glasses  on  a  tray — he  turns  before  leav- 
ing and  says)  I'm  sorry,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (Shortly)  So  am  I.  (Removes 
coat  and  muffler  and  throws  them  on  sofa.  (Exit 
PINE  R.  2  E.  WAVERTON  walks  to  the  window  impa- 
tiently, looks  out  and  shivers  at  the  prospect.  The 
telephone  bell  rings.  He  goes  to  the  instrument, 
which  is  on  a  writing-table,  and  takes  up  the  re- 
ceiver. Crossly)  Hello!  Hello!  Who  is  that? 
(Then  he  changes  to  a  more  amiable  tone)  Oh,  is 
that  you,  Beatrice  ?  (Listens  for  a  moment)  Cross 
with  you  ?  Good  Heavens,  no !  I  came  away  sim- 
ply because  I  was  bored.  (Listens  for  a  moment) 
Yes,  bored  with  the  others,  of  course.  My  dear 
Bee,  how  you  can  stand  that  set,  I  don't  know. 
What  was  the  one  and  only  topic  of  conversation 
during  dinner?  "What  will  the  dear  Duchess  do 
now?" — What  the  devil  do  I  care  what  the  dear 
Duchess  will  do  now?  The  dear  Duchess'  love 
affairs  leave  me  entirely  cold.  The  only  love  af- 
fairs that  interest  me  are  my  own.  (Listens  for 
a  moment,  takes  off  hat  and  places  it  on  table,  then 
laughs  slightly)  Of  course,  I  mean,  affair,  you  child. 
(Listens  for  a  moment)  Oh,  no  doubt  you  were 
bored  too,  but  you  didn't  show  it.  (Listens  for  a 
moment)  No,  I  shan't  go  out  any  more  to-night. 
I  am  sick  to  death  of  bridge,  anyway.  (He  listens 
for  a  moment,  then  laughs  with  an  approach  to 
heartiness)  All  right!  (Listens  for  a  moment) 
Yes,  yes,  to-morrow,  then.  Good  night,  dear.  (Puts 
down  the  receiver,  is  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  then 
takes  a  book — crosses  to  sofa  and  sits — another  mo- 
ment's thought,  looks  over  to  door  R.  2  E.,  rises, 
flings  book  on  sofa,  rings  the  bell  and  stands  at  the 
fireplace.  Enter  PINE  R.  2  E.,,  crosses  down  to  sofa 
and  collects  coat,  wrap  and  hat)  Pine,  I  came  home 


PASSERS-BY  II 

in  a  very  bad  temper,  and  I  have  an  uneasy  feeling 
that  I  may  have  judged  you  too  hardly. 

PINE.    (L.  c.)    I  make  no  complaints,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (By  fireplace)  Everything  after  all 
is  a  question  of  point  of  view.  You  were  brought 
up  in  service? 

PINE.  Yes,  sir,  like  my  father  and  mother  before 
me.  I  rose  from  steward's  boy,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  Ah !  and  the  point  of  view  in  service 
is  that  a  man  may  make  free  with  his  employer's 
goods  without  being  considered  dishonest. 

PINE.  Within  reason,  sir,  particularly  in  re- 
gard to  food,  drink,  tobacco,  and  such  like.  Prac- 
tically every  valet  and  butler  in  England  does  it. 
Most  go  a  great  deal  further.  I  could  make  your 
hair  stand  on  end,  sir,  with  the  robbery  that  goes 
on.  (Movement  from  WAVERTON )  I'm  not  seek- 
ing to  justify  myself,  but  I've  never  belonged  to  that 
lot.  I've  always  respected  myself,  sir.  (Cross  Rj 

WAVERTON.  Then  from  your  point  of  view 
you've  never  been  dishonest? 

PINE.     Never,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  And  have  you  any  point  of  view  to 
explain  your  use  of  my  rooms  for  purposes  of  en- 
tertainment instead  of  your  own? 

PINE.     I  have  my  excuse,  with  respect,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (Leans  against  R.  end  of  sofa  L.) 
What  is  it?  (Motions  to  PINE,  who  puts  coat  and 
wrap  on  chair,  R.,  and  hat  on  table) 

PINE.  (Cross  L.  a  little)  Your  rooms  look  out 
on  to  Piccadilly — on  to  Life,  sir.  My  rooms  look 
out  on  to  a  dead  wall — on  to  nothing — I  love  life, 
sir — forgive  the  liberty. 

WAVERTON.  (With  a  short  laugh)  Well,  at  least 
you've  been  candid,  Pine. 

PINE.  I  was  glad  to  be,  sir.  It's  the  first  chance 
I've  had  during  the  three  years  I've  been  with  you. 

WAVERTON.    What  do  you  mean? 


12  PASSERS-BY 

PINE.  I  mean,  with  respect,  sir,  that  it's  the  first 
time  I've  exchanged  remarks  with  you  except  in  the 
way  of  service. 

WAVERTON.  (A  little  surprised)  Why,  Pine, 
the  truth  is  I  never  looked  on  you  as  human. 
(Rises,  and  crosses  round  L.  of  settee  to  win- 
dow) 

PINE.  Mr.  Nighty  was  saying  when  you  came 
in,  sir,  that  we're  all  human  when  the  mask  is  pulled 
off. 

WAVERTON.     Nighty's  a  philosopher? 

PINE.     Yes,  sir — not  that  I'm  a  judge. 

WAVERTON.  (Looking  out  of  window)  What  a 
night ! 

PINE.  (Above  chair,  R.c.J  It's  a  bit  cheerless, 
sir. 

WAVERTON.  Pine,  did  you  ever  suffer  from  an 
unaccountable  depression  ? 

PINE.  Feeling  of  sadness,  sir — melancholy,  so  to 
speak  ? 

WAVERTON.  More  than  that — a  feeling  that  dis- 
aster is  in  the  air — that  something  unexpected  is 
going  to  happen? 

PINE.  The  feeling  that  some  one  is  walkin'  over 
your  grave,  sir  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Up  L.)  Well,  yes — I  suppose  that 
expresses  it. 

PINE.  (By  chair,  R.cJ  I  haven't  been  a  per- 
sonal sufferer,  sir,  but  I've  known  cases.  Take  the 
late  lamented  Hearl  Edendork,  for  instance.  I  was 
dressing  his  lordship  the  night  before  he  was  run 
over  by  a  motor-car,  and  he  said  to  me — "Pine,"  he 
said 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  down  c.  to  R.,  dryly)  Yes, 
I've  no  doubt  his  lordship  made  a  very  intelligent 
remark,  Pine. 

PINE.  He  did,  sir — also  his  lordship  made  it  a 
practice  to  walk  under  ladders. 


PASSERS-BY  13 

WAVERTON.  (Secretly  amused)  You  are  well 
up  in  the  superstitions,  Pine. 

PINE.     I've  made  a  particular  study  of  'em,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (Down  R.)  And  you're  a  true  be- 
liever ? 

PINE.  With  respect,  sir,  I  not  only  believe,  but 
conform. 

WAVERTON.  (Laughing,  crosses  L.  to  fireplace) 
Then  you  are  human  indeed!  Damme  Pine,  you 
amuse  me !  and  you  may  stay  on  here  if  you  want  to. 

PINE.     I  should  be  grateful,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  You  may  be,  provided  you  don't  ex- 
press it.  You  may  even  exercise  your  point  of  view 
on  my  whisky,  but  you'll  be  good  enough  to  leave 
my  cigars  alone  until  you've  learned  the  proper  ap- 
preciation of  fine  tobacco. 

PINE.    (Behind  table  R.)    You  may  trust  me,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  As  for  using  my  rooms,  let  me  see 
— it's  the  window  that  attracts  you,  isn't  it?  (He 
walks  to  the  window) 

PINE.     It's  the  passers-by,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (Slowly)  The  passers-by,  eh? 
(Looks  out  curiously)  They're  a  drab-looking  lot 
to-night. 

PINE.  (Up  R.  to  window)  I  find  watching  them 
takes  me  out  of  myself,  sir.  Sometimes,  not  know- 
ing any  one's  looking,  they'll  play  up  most  natural. 

WAVERTON.  (Looking  intently)  What's  that 
chap  doing  over  there  ? 

PINE.     Which  one,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  That  one  with  the  hair.  (Motions 
to  PINE,  who  joins  him  at  window)  There !  He's 
picked  up  something  and  put  it  in  his  pocket ! 

PINE.  (Freezing  up  severely)  Oh,  'e's  no  good, 
sir.  He's  not  human.  (He  turns  away  from  win- 
dow) 

WAVERTON.  (Picking  him  up  quickly)  Not 
human.  How  do  you  know? 


I4  PASSERS-BY 

PINE.  He  belongs  to  the  dregs — to  the  class  that 
lives  on  what  they  pick  up  and  charity.  Sinful,  I 
call  it,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     You  don't  know  him? 

PINE.     No,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     Yet  you  presume  to  judge  him? 

PINE.  (Firmly)  I  know  the  class,  sir.  (Slight 
pause) 

WAVERTON.    (Suddenly)    Fetch  him  in  here. 

PINE.    (Amazed)    Fetch  'im  in  'ere,  sir? 

WAVERTON.    Certainly.    Why  not? 

PINE.  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  it's  my  duty  to  warn 
you.  No  good  can  come  of  mixing  with  that  class. 

WAVERTON.  Do  what  I  tell  you.  (PINE  goes 
down  R.  and  picks  up  coat,  etc.)  I,  too,  want  taking 
out  of  myself  and  I  choose  my  own  methods.  And 
bring  your  friend  Nighty  back ;  I'd  like  to  make  a 
better  impression  on  him. 

PINE.  (Goes  to  door,  where  he  turns — solemnly) 
Mr.  Waverton — sir — if  I  might  venture  to  entreat 

WAVERTON.  (Lightly)  You  might  venture — but 
in  vain.  Go  quickly!  (Exit  PINE,  R.IE.,  shuts 
door.  Now  in  good  spirits)  That's  all  right! 
(Comes  down — hesitates — then  takes  off  telephone 
receiver)  Hello!  Give  me  17004  May  fair. 
(Pause)  Hello,  is  that  Lady  Hurley's  house?  .  .  . 
Oh — it's  you,  Simpson?  Is  Miss  Beatrice  there? 
Oh  .  .  .  playing  bridge.  See  if  she  can  manage  to 
speak  to  me  for  a  moment.  (Pause,  gets  cigarette 
•from  box  and  lights  it)  Hello !  (He  smiles)  Oh, 
Bee — sorry  to  interrupt,  but  I  didn't  want  you  to  go 
to  bed  thinking  me  an  old  pig.  (He  listens  and 
smiles)  No,  I'm  not  an  old  pig,  am  I? — and  I 
didn't  at  all  mean  to  be  beastly — but  I  had  an  at- 
tack of  the  blues.  Pine  diagnosed  for  me.  It  ap- 
pears there  was  some  one  taking  quite  a  nice  stroll 
over  my  grave.  (Listens  and  laughs)  Yes,  all  may 


PASSERS-BY  15 

yet  be  well.  .  .  .  Kiss  you  good  night?  .  .  .  Wish 
I  could.  .  .  .  Oh,  your  photograph. — Wait  a  mo- 
ment. (He  reaches  for  a  framed  photograph  on 
writing-table,  lifts  it  and  kisses  it)  There,  did  you 
hear  it?  The  deed's  done.  (Noise  of  outer  door) 
Yes — good  night,  dearest !  To-morrow !  (Puts  re- 
ceiver down,  also  photo,  which  is  placed  at  n.  end 
of  table.  The  room  door  R.IE.  is  opened  by  PINE, 
who  shows  in  SAMUEL  BURNS  and  enters  himself. 
SAMUEL  BURNS  is  a  thin  man,  looking  almost  any 
age  from  twenty-five  to  forty,  and  about  five  feet 
five  inches  in  height.  He  owns  an  expressionless 
face,  with  lustreless  eyes,  and  a  short,  thin,  neg- 
lected beard  and  moustache.  His  hair  is  straw-col- 
oured, and  bulges  out  at  the  sides.  He  is  obviously 
a  wastrel.  His  clothes  are  odd  and  too  small  for 
him,  and  he  wears  an  old  travelling  cap.  His  pock- 
ets bulge  with  a  variety  of  impedimenta.  He  has  a 
habit  of  carrying  his  arms  in  front  of  him,  and  tuck- 
ing his  hands  into  the  opposite  sleeves.  He  also  has 
a  habit  of  looking  on  the  ground  and  picking  up 
unconsidered  trifles,  such  as  pins.  Altogether  he 
cuts  a  figure  painfully  negative,  pathetic,  and  un- 
attractive, and  there  is  a  touch  of  surprise  and  alarm 
in  his  mild  face  as  he  looks  at  WAVERTON  and 
around  the  room.  WAVERTON  comes  down  to  be- 
low chair,  L.C.  A  little  embarrassed — clears  his 
throat)  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  step  up — Mr. — 
er — my  good  fellow. 

BURNS.  (Whose  voice  is  thin  and  high-pitched, 
R.cJ  No  'arm,  Mister. — It  was  this  'ere  gent  as 
fetched  me.  (Indicates  PINE  with  a  nod) 

WAVERTON.  (Fidgeting  and  still  embarrassed, 
while  PINE  stands  motionless  as  if  on  duty  R.)  And 
— er — by  what  name  am  I  to  address  you? 

BURNS.     My  name,  do  you  mean? 

WAVERTON.     If  you'd  be  so  good. 


16  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.  Burns,  as  far  as  I  recollect — Samuel 
Burns — but  nobody  calls  me  nothing. 

WAVERTON.  Oh  —  no  nickname  —  or  —  or  pet 
name? 

BURNS.  Nothing  like  that,  mister — unless  it's 
"man." 

WAVERTON.     "Man?" 

BURNS.  Yes.  Sometimes  when  people  give  me 

things  they  say,  "  'Ere,  man" ( WAVERTON 

turns  aside  up  L.  with  a  slight  groan  and  rubs  his 
chin — PINE  nudges  BURNS  gingerly) 

PINE.    (In  a  whisper)    Take  your  cap  off. 

BURNS.  (Starting)  What,  me?  Yes,  sir. 
(Takes  his  cap  off  hastily.  WAVERTON  and  PINE 
catch  each  other's  eyes  over  BURNS'  head — their  em- 
barrassment is  unconsciously  humorous) 

WAVERTON.  (With  sudden  asperity)  Well, 
Pine,  get  along ! 

PINE.     Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  don't  take  you. 

WAVERTON.     You  brought  this  gentleman  here. 

PINE.    (Firmly)    By  your  orders,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  You  presumed  to  form  a  certain 
judgment.  Give  Mr.  Burns  an  opportunity  of  ex- 
plaining  

PINE.  (Preparing  for  a  moral  effort)  I'll  do  my 
best,  sir.  (Then  to  BURNS,  after  clearing  his  throat) 
How  came  you  to  fall  so  low,  my  good  man? 

BURNS.  Me?  Fall?  I  ain't  fallen,  sir!  I'm 
very  good  on  me  pins.  (WAVERTON  and  PINE  ex- 
change another  eloquent  look) 

PINE.  (Nervously)  May  I  speak  to  you  a  mo- 
ment, sir.  (He  crosses  to  WAVERTON.  They  both 
walk  down  L.  and  away  from  BURNS.  BURNS  mean- 
while, discovering  a  pin  stuck  in  the  carpet,  stoops 
down  and  captures  it,  and  sticks  it  in  his  waistcoat 
— PINE  lowers  his  voice)  As  I  feared,  sir,  'opeless. 
Nighty's  coming  over  presently.  You'll  find  'im  more 
interestin' — a  very  well-informed,  respectable  man. 


PASSERS-BY  17 

WAVERTON.    What's  the  matter  with  this  one  ? 

PINE.  He  fair  gives  me  the  creeps,  sir.  He 
doesn't  amount  to  anything  at  all.  He's  simply 
nothing.  It's  'orrible.  Hadn't  I  better  give  him  a 
trifle  and  let  him  go? 

WAVERTON.  Certainly  not !  We  haven't  learned 
anything  about  him  yet.  You  said  you  knew  the 
class.  I  think  you're  a  bit  of  a  fraud,  Pine. 

PINE.  He  frightens  me  close  to — makes  me  ner- 
vous, sir. 

WAVERTON.  Nonsense!  That  is  what  comes  of 
being  brought  up  in  the  iron  security  of  service. 
The  man's  quite  harmless. 

PINE.     So  is  a  cockroach,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  You  forget  yourself,  Pine.  The 
gentleman  is  my  guest,  and  must  be  suitably  enter- 
tained. Is  there  any  food  in  the  place? 

PINE.     There's  cold  chicken,  sir,  and  ham. 

WAVERTON.  (Turning  to  BURNS,)  You'll  stay 
to  supper,  I  hope,  Mr.  Burns. 

BURNS.     Supper  ? — me  ? — 'Ere  ? 

WAVERTON.     I  hope  you'll  give  me  that  pleasure. 

BURNS.  'Scuse  me,  mister,  but  if  the  gentleman 
would  wrap  my  bit  up  in  a  lump  of  newspaper 

WAVERTON.  That  would  rob  me  of  the  advan- 
tage of  your  agreeable  conversation,  Burns.  You 
must  let  me  have  my  way  this  time.  Pine,  supper ! 

PINE.     In  the  kitchen,  sir  ? 

WAVERTON.  No.  Here,  of  course.  (Goes  round 
sofa  up  L.,  then  down  to  PINE,)  Something  on  a 
tray.  (To  chair,  L.C.  PINE  hesitates,  then  clears 
table  R.,  and  puts  tray  on  sideboard  up  R.  WAVER- 
TON waves  him  off  imperiously.  Exit  PINE  R.2E. 
BURNS,  after  a  timid  look  round,  has  remained 
standing)  Sit  down,  Burns. 

BURNS.     Me,  mister?    Where? 

WAVERTON.  Here!  (Pulls  chair  from  writing- 
table  to  c.  BURNS,  with  a  visible  moral  effort,  sits 


1 8  PASSERS-BY 

on  the  edge  of  the  arm-chair)  No,  that's  not  right. 
(Waves  him  back)  What  do  you  suppose  a  chair  is 
for  ?  Get  your  teeth  into  the  damned  thing. 

BURNS.  (Gives  vent  to  a  squeaking  little  laugh) 
My! 

WAVERTON.  (Sitting  on  edge  of  writing-table) 
There,  you  see  you're  laughing.  You're  all  right. 

BURNS.  (With  a  touch  of  vanity)  Oh,  yes,  I'm 
all  right,  mister.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with 
me. 

WAVERTON.     It's  pretty  bad  out  to-night. 

BURNS.  Bad,  d'you  call  it?  Why  I've  known 
it  snow,  an'  sleet,  an'  rain,  an'  fog,  an'  freeze  all  at 
wunst.  It's  a  wonderful  place  is  London! 

WAVERTON.     You  have  a  cheerful  nature,  Burns. 

BURNS.     No  good  grumbling,  mister. 

WAVERTON.  And  yet  the  world  doesn't  seem  to 
have  used  you  very  well  ? 

BURNS.     I  make  no  complaints. 

(Enter  PINE  to  lay  the  cloth,  which  he  takes  from 
drawer  in  table,  Rj 

WAVERTON.     You  never  kick,  eh? 

BURNS.  Me,  mister?  No.  I'm  all  for  peace  and 
quietness. 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  R.  to  table)  Hear  that, 
Pine?  Mr.  Burns  has  a  cheerful  nature.  He 
doesn't  grumble.  He  makes  no  complaints  and  he 
never  kicks. 

PINE.  It's  uncanny,  sir — that's  what  it  is — un- 
canny. 

WAVERTON.  (In  a  lower  voice)  I  had  him 
laughing  just  now — you  missed  that! 

PINE.     I  consider  I  was  well  out  of  it,  sir. 

(Exit  PINE  R.2E. 

WAVERTON.  (Sitting  on  table  R.J  We  get  along 
very  well,  Burns,  you  and  I.  I  suppose  it  is  be- 


PASSERS-BY  19 

cause  we  don't  agree  too  much.  With  regard  to 
the  weather,  for  instance,  you  contradicted  my  views 
with  remarkable  emphasis.  Now  as  to  this  kicking 
business,  I  think  you're  wrong.  If  I  were  in  your 
condition  in  life  I  should  kick  like  the  devil.  I 
should  expect  the  State,  which  produced  me,  to 
either  mend  me  or  end  me. 

BURNS.  (Over  whose  head  this  speech  has  passed 
— with  mild  cheerfulness)  You  never  know  yer 
luck. 

WAVERTON.  An  apt  quotation,  I  admit;  but  I 
should  have  thought  some  employment  might  have 
been  found — some  light  form  of  work 

BURNS.     Work,  mister?     Work's  for  workmen. 

WAVERTON.  By  Jove,  you've  said  it  all,  Burns, 
in  one  flaming  epigram.  "Work's  for  workmen" — 
You  interest  me  extremely.  (Sits  chair  R.C .)  Would 
it  be  indiscreet  of  me  to  ask  what  you  were 
looking  for  when  I  first  saw  you  over  by  the  cab- 
shelter? 

BURNS.  Me,  mister?  Any  odd  bit.  You  never 
know  what'll  come  in  'andy.  Take  a  bit  of  string, 
for  instance.  It's  wonderful  comfortable  to  tie  up 
the  bottom  of  your  trousers  when  the  weather's 
sharp. 

WAVERTON.  That's  worth  knowing.  I  must  try 
it. 

BURNS.  (Earnestly)  Sometimes  you'll  find 
something  or  some  one'll  give  you  something  as  ain't 
no  use.  Put  it  by,  I  say — put  it  by — 'Ide  it  till 
such  time  as  it  comes  in  'andy — 'Ide  it — that's  busi- 
ness. 

WAVERTON.  But  splendid,  Burns.  You're  a  true 
economist. 

(Enter  PINE  with  butler's  tray,  on  which  are 
chicken  and  ham,  bread  and  butter,  cheese  and 
biscuits,  etc.) 


20  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.  (Taking  a  corkscrew  from  his  pocket) 
'Ere,  mister,  see  this  corkscrew?  (He  hands  the 
corkscrew  to  WAVERTON  and  restores  to  his  pocket 
many  miscellaneous  articles  that  have  come  out 
of  it.  WAVERTON  gravely  examines  corkscrew, 
then,  concealing  a  smile ) 

WAVERTON.  It's  a  well-made  corkscrew,  Burns, 
but  unfortunately  it  seems  to  be  broken. 

BURNS.  (Eagerly  taking  the  corkscrew  back  and 
restoring  it  to  his  pocket)  Broken,  mister,  as  you 
observe,  but  it'll  come  in  'andy.  I've  carried  that 
corkscrew  for  two  years  now. 

WAVERTON.  You  see,  Pine,  Mr.  Burns  has  the 
true  instincts  of  the  collector,  and  is  as  thrifty  as  a 
Frenchman.  He's  full  of  qualities. 

PINE.     It's  'orrible! 

WAVERTON.  (Pointing  to  BURNS'  breast-pocket) 
That's  a  particularly  prosperous-looking  pocket  you 
have  there. 

BURNS.  (With  a  sly  look)  That's  a  bit  I  saved 
in  case  I  'ad  no  luck  for  supper.  Like  to  see  it, 
mister  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Hastily)  No,  I  think  I'd  rather 
not,  Burns.  (The  front  door  bell  is  heard  ringing. 
Exit  PINE  R.IE.J  Ah!  here  comes  Nighty.  Come 
and  take  your  place  at  the  table.  Damme,  I  like 
you !  This  will  do  nicely.  (He  places  a  chair  at  the 
table  facing  audience.  BURNS  rises,  goes  to  WAV- 
ERTON, stoops  and  puts  his  cap  under  the  chair  in- 
dicated, which  he  then  occupies.  During  the  fol- 
lowing he  patiently  sits  and  awaits  the  turn  of  af- 
fairs. The  door  opens,  and  PINE  enters  showing  in 

NlGHTYj 

PINE.     It's  Nighty,  sir. 
WAVERTON.     Good!    Glasses,  Pine. 
PINE.     Yes,  sir.     (Crosses  up  to  sideboard  and 
gets  glasses) 

WAVERTON.     (Shakes  hands  with  NIGHTY,  then 


PASSERS-BY  21 

takes  him  L.)  It's  very  good  of  you  to  come  back, 
Nighty,  just  to  give  me  a  chance  of  showing  that  I 
am  not  such  a  surly  fellow  as  you  may  have 
thought. 

NIGHTY.  Not  at  all,  guv'nor.  Me  and  my  old 
'orse  was  just  thinkin'  of  makin'  our  way  'ome. 
It's  gettin'  very  thick  outside. 

WAVERTON.  I  insist  on  engaging  you  and  your 
old  horse  by  the  hour.  (In  a  lower  voice)  I  want 
you  to  help  me  entertain  that  poor  devil  over  there. 

NIGHTY.     With  pleasure,  guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.  (Gaily)  Good!  And  so  to  supper. 
(He  goes  to  table)  Will  you  sit  there,  Nighty? 
(Pointing  to  a  chair  L.C.) 

NIGHTY.  Thank  you  kindly,  guv'nor,  I  'ad  my 
supper  at  the  shelter;  but  I'll  'elp  Mr.  Pine  to  wait. 

WAVERTON.  Capital! — and  help  yourself  to 
Whisky.  (Crosses  to  fire-place  and  throws  cigarette 
in  fire) 

NIGHTY.  (Going  up  to  PINE,  R.  Aside  to  him) 
I  thought  you  said  he  wasn't  human  ? 

PINE.     I  think  he's  gone  dotty. 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  R.  and  sits  R.  of  table) 
Ask  Mr.  Burns  what  he'll  drink,  Nighty.  (  NIGHTY 
bends  down  and  speaks  aside  to  BURNS.  BURNS 
replies.  Then  NIGHTY  raises  his  head,  his  face 
quivering  with  suppressed  laughter)  Well? 

NIGHTY.  He  says  he  could  do  wiv  a  drop  of 
four  'alf,  guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.     (Inquiringly)    "Four  'alf"? 

NIGHTY.     It's  a  kind  of  beer,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     Pine,  beer  for  Mr.  Burns. 

PINE.     Yes,  sir.  (Exit  R.2E. 

WAVERTON.  Do  have  some  butter,  Burns. 
(NiGHTY,  noticing  that  BURNS  is  not  very  expert  at 
the  table,  butters  a  large  piece  of  bread  for  him) 

NIGHTY.  (Putting  the  bread  and  butter  on 
BURNS'  plate)  There,  that's  hearty !  (Seeing  that 


22  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS  is  employing  his  fingers  with  his  chicken, 
NIGHTY  puts  the  knife  and  fork  on  his  plate  as  a 
reminder.  Then  nudges  him) 

WAVERTON.  It's  all  right,  Nighty.  Mr.  Burns 
prefers  the  Oriental  method,  and  I'm  not  sure  that 
it  isn't  the  better  one.  ( Eats  biscuit)  I'm  as  hun- 
gry as  a  hunter.  (He  says  this  to  encourage  BURNS,) 

(Enter  PINE  with  beer.    He  fills  BURNS'  glass) 

NIGHTY.     It's  the  nippy  air  does  it,  guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.  Sorry  you  won't  join  us.  (Motions 
NIGHTY  to  chair  R.C.) 

NIGHTY.  (Sits)  I've  just  had  a  reg-lar  tuck  in 
of  eggs  and  bacon — prime  stuff! 

WAVERTON.     You  find  life  worth  living,  Nighty? 

NIGHTY.  (Seriously)  It's  a  wonderful  gift  is 
life !  (He  sits  a  little  away  from  table) 

WAVERTON.  (Mixes  whisky  and  soda)  But  come 
now — honestly — if  you  had  had  the  choice  of  living 
or  not  living,  and  could  have  foreseen  all  you  have 
gone  through — you'd  have  refused? 

NIGHTY.     Honestly  I  shouldn't,  guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.     And  you,  Burns? 

BURNS.  I  never  refuse  anything,  I  don't!  I 
make  it  a  rule ! 

WAVERTON.  (Looks  up  with  a  smile  at  PINE,  who 
shudders  and  turns  away)  Pine,  give  Mr.  Nighty 
some  whisky.  fPiNE  does  so.  Raising  his  glass) 
Gentlemen,  your  health !  I  drink  to  my  new  friends. 

NIGHTY.     Here's  to  you,  guv'nor.     (Drinks) 

WAVERTON.  Burns,  you're  a  great  man ;  you  eat 
well,  and  I  hope  you  sleep  well. 

BURNS.  Not  always,  mister.  The  other  night  I 
dreamt  I  was  choppin'  wood. 

NIGHTY.  (To  BURNS )  Work  isn't  much  in  your 
way. 

BURNS.     I  ain't  strong. 


PASSERS-BY  23 

NIGHTY.     Wasn't  your  father  a  workman? 

BURNS.  No,  mate.  'E  had  something  the  matter 
with  'is  chest.  'Ow  'e  used  ter  corf  !  My ! 

WAVERTON.     And  your  mother? 

BURNS.  She's  dead,  too.  She  was  always  ailin'. 
'Ip  disease  they  called  it.  (He  drinks) 

NIGHTY.  (Aside  to  WAVERTON,)  Lord!  They 
breed  dogs  better. 

WAVERTON.  (Nods.  To  BURNS,  sympathetically 
in  a  low  voice)  And  then  there  was  only  you  ? 

BURNS.  (As  if  dimly  remembering)  Yes,  only 
me.  I  was  abart  eleven  then,  and  sickly.  I  started 
walking.  I  was  always  pretty  all  right  on  me  pins. 
(He  is  quite  unconscious  of  the  pathos  of  this. 
There  is  silence  for  a  few  moments.  WAVERTON 
and  NIGHTY  exchange  looks)  Well,  cheero!  (He 
drinks  his  beer  and  goes  on  eating.  WAVERTON  rises 
and  crosses  L.  for  the  cigars,  which  he  gets  from 
drawer  in  cabinet) 

WAVERTON.  You're  something  of  a  politician, 
Nighty. 

NIGHTY.     Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.     A   thinker   then — you   have   ideas! 

NIGHTY.  Us  old  'orse  cabmen  has  lots  o'  time 
for  thinking  in  these  days  o'  taxis  and  the  like. 

WAVERTON.  (Gives  the  box  to  PINE,)  Pine, 
cigars  for  Mr.  Nighty  and  Mr.  Burns.  (PiNE  of- 
fers the  box  to  NIGHTY,) 

NIGHTY.  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Pine.  ( PINE,  with 
an  air  of  grave  disapproval,  offers  the  box  to 
BURNS,) 

BURNS.  (Hesitating)  Wot,  me?  My!  (He 
takes  cigar  and  then  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of 
paper — he  rolls  up  the  cigar  and  puts  the  parcel 
back  in  his  pocket.  PINE  puts  cigars  away  on  side- 
board) 

WAVERTON.  (Sits  L.C.  Encouragingly)  Well, 
about  your  ideas,  Nighty? 


24  PASSERS-BY 

NIGHTY.  (Confused)  Oh,  I  ain't  got  many, 
guv'nor,  but  if  I'd  been  a  rich  man  and  educated  I 
think  I'd  'a  gone  into  Parliament !  (Laughs)  Me, 
a  Member  of  Parliament !  I  got  a  cheek,  'aven't  I  ? 
(He  is  slightly  "mellow"  with  the  whisky  he  has 
drunk.  PINE  gathers  supper  things  together  on 
tray) 

WAVERTON.  I'm  sure  we've  many  less  intelligent, 
Nighty. 

NIGHTY.  Sometimes  driving  'ome  I  make  a 
speech  out  loud,  and  my  old  'orse's  ears  go  flop-flop 
until  I  think  he  understands  and  is  trying  to  say 
"  'ear !  'ear !"  (Exit  PINE  with  tray,  R.2E. 

WAVERTON.  Capital!  And  what  do  you  say, 
Nighty? 

NIGHTY.  (Very  confused)  Oh,  come  guv'nor, 
I  couldn't. 

WAVERTON.  Get  along.  You're  all  right, 
Nighty.  We're  all  tiled  in  here. 

NIGHTY.  (Smiling  and  wriggling)  But  really, 

guv'nor ("BURNS  makes  a  parcel  of  bread, 

celery,  etc.) 

WAVERTON.  I  want  to  hear  your  views.  (Beck- 
ons him) 

NIGHTY.  (Drazvs  chair  close  up  to  WAVERTON ) 
My  views?  That's  easy,  guv'nor.  Every  child 
born,  boy,  is  entitled  in  abundance  to  the  air,  light 
and  water  that  Nature  provides.  (He  taps  W7 AVER- 
TON  familiarly  on  the  knee)  It's  the  duty  of  the 
State  to  see  the  children  ain't  done  out  of  their 
rights.  Then  again,  the  State  demands  children  in 
quantity — very  well,  it's  the  duty  of  the  State  to  see 
that  the  quality's  all  right.  Every  child  is  entitled 
to  'ealthy  parents.  A  'uman  incapable — ( WAVER- 
TON raises  a  warning  finger)  Yes,  poor  bloke !  It 
ain't  'is  fault.  The  thing  is,  don't  breed  'em  like 
that!  The  future  of  the  race  is  with  the  children. 
Legislate  for  the  children. 


PASSERS-BY  25 

WAVERTON.  Bravo,  Nighty.  (They  grasp  his 
hand)  You're  a  Statesman. 

NIGHTY.    (Confused)    Thank  you,  guv'nor. 

BURNS.  (Gets  cap  from  under  the  chair.  Rises, 
and  goes  down  L.  of  table  R.J  Well,  good  night  all ! 

WAVERTON.  But  you're  not  leaving  us  so  soon, 
Burns. 

(Enter  PINE,  R.2EJ 

BURNS.  I  want  to  get  along  to  the  Embank- 
ment. I  never  miss  the  Embankment  when  I'm  in 
London.  There's  always  a  bit  of  life  there,  and 
sometimes  they  give  you  things. 

WAVERTON.  Every  class  has  its  social  centre, 
you  see,  Nighty.  One  moment,  Burns.  Pine ! 

PINE.     Yes,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  One  of  my  old  overcoats  for  Mr. 
Burns — a  warm  one. 

PINE.    (Making  a  wry  face)    Yes,  sir. 

(Exit  R.IE.,  leaving  door  open. 

WAVERTON.  (Walks  to  the  window)  It's  ter- 
ribly black  out  there,  Burns.  You'll  never  find 
your  way.  (The  fog  outside  has  grown  to  be  dense 
black) 

BURNS.  I'd  find  my  way  blindfold  to  the  Em- 
bankment. 

NIGHTY.  (Goes  to  window  and  looks  out  anxi- 
ously) Me  an*  my  old  'orse'll  Jave  all  our  work 
cut  out  gettin'  to  Kensington. 

WAVERTON.  (Up  c.)  That  reminds  me,  you 
and  your  old  horse  are  mine  to-night.  (He  presses 
a  coin  on  him) 

NIGHTY.     No,  really  guv'nor — I 

WAVERTON.  Please!  (Enter  PINE  with  over- 
coat.  WAVERTON  joins  him  down  R.,  and  takes  coat 
from  him,  then  exit  PINE — leaves  door  open)  Now, 
Burns,  let  me  help  you  with  your  coat. 


26  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.     Oh,  I  say! 

WAVERTON.  (Helping  BURNS  on  with  the  coat) 
Just  to  keep  the  cold  out. 

BURNS.  (Admiring  himself  in  the  overcoat) 
My !  ( WAVERTON  presses  a  coin  into  BURNS'  hand. 
BURNS  looks  at  it  and  even  his  remote  heart  seems 
vaguely  touched) 

WAVERTON.  (To  avoid  being  thanked,  speaks 
quickly,  shakes  hands  with  BURNS )  Good  night. 

BURNS.     Good  night!    Thanks,  all! 

WAVERTON.  Come  and  see  me  again  whenever 
things  are  bad.  Remember  you  have  a  friend  here. 
Good  night. 

BURNS.  (Goes  to  the  door.  He  is  then  visited 
by  an  impulse  and  he  turns  to  WAVERTON  )  Good 
luck,  mister!  (Exit  BURNS  R.IE. 

NIGHTY.  (Crosses  down  R.  below  table.  At 
door)  Good  night,  Guv'nor.  God  bless  you! 

WAVERTON.  Thank  you,  Nighty,  and  look  in 
sometimes  and  see  if  I  have  a  job  for  you,  remem- 
ber we're  neighbours.  Good  night.  (Exit  NIGHTY 
— shuts  door.  The  smile  dies  out  of  WAVERTON'S 
face.  He  walks  to  window,  looks  out  and  shivers. 
He  comes  down  to  his  writing-table,  sits,  and  looks 
over  some  papers.  Enter  PINE  R.2E.  Folds  cloth 
and  puts  in  drawer  in  table.  Without  looking  up) 
The  people  who  are  at  home  to-night  are  lucky, 
Pine. 

PINE.  Yes,  sir.  It's  dangerous  to  be  abroad. 
Can't  see  your  hand  in  front  of  your  face.  (Pause) 
The  young  person  standing  in  the  doorway  seems 
frightened  out  of  'er  life. 

WAVERTON.     (Quickly)    What  young  person? 

PINE.  Young  woman,  sir.  Respectable,  I  fancy. 
Came  out  of  a  'bus  that  was  on  the  pavement  just 
now — going  the  wrong  way  and  frightened  to  turn. 
She's  coughing  something  dreadful — fog's  got  into 
her  chest,  I  suppose. 


PASSERS-BY  27 

WAVERTON.  You  should  have  asked  her  in.  It's 
a  frightful  night  for  a  woman  to  be  out  alone.  Go 
and  .  .  .  Wait,  I'll  go  myself!  (Exit  R.IE.  PINE 
puts  chairs  tidy.  He  goes  to  the  open  door  and  lis- 
tens, then  exit  R.2E.) 

A  woman's  coughing  is  heard.  It  approaches. 
Enter  WAVERTON  and  MARGARET  SUMMERS. 
She  is  a  slender  woman  of  twenty-five,  a  little 
above  medium  height.  The  plainness  of  her 
dress  fails  to  conceal  the  attractiveness  of  her 
figure;  she  has  a  beautiful  face  and  wears  a 
proud  and  reserved  expression.  Her  face  is  not 
seen  on  her  entrance,  however,  as  she  is  wear- 
ing a  hat  that  comes  over  her  eyes  and  a  thick 
veil.  She  continues  to  cough  painfully  after 
entering.  WAVERTON  shuts  door  at  entrance. 
He  quickly  gets  her  a  glass  of  water  from  the 
sideboard.  MARGARET  lifts  her  veil  sufficiently 
to  drink. 

WAVERTON.  (Pulls  chair  out  R.  of  table.  Gently) 
Do  sit  down.  ( MARGARET  sits  and  breathes  heavily, 
but  ceases  to  cough.  Pause.  MARGARET  sighs 
deeply)  You  are  a  little  better? 

MARGARET.  Yes — thank  you.  (  WAVERTON  starts 
on  hearing  her  voice  and  looks  at  her  keenly.  She 
lowers  her  head)  I  am  all  right.  I  will  go  now. 
(She  coughs  slightly,  then  rises) 

WAVERTON.  No,  no — you  must  rest  for  a  mo- 
ment! That  abominable  fog  got  into  your  lungs. 
It's  poisonous ! 

MARGARET.  I  would  rather  go  now — please. 
(Goes  L.  a  little) 

WAVERTON.  Wait!  wait!  You  can't  go  out  into 
that — (pointing  through  window)  London  blind- 
fold! Appalling  thought!  The  monster  sightless! 
You  can  hear  him  growling. 


28  PASSERS-BY 

MARGARET.  I'm  not  frightened!  I'm  going — 
really — I  know  my  way.  Thank  you  for  your  kind- 
ness. Good  night!  (He  goes  down  quickly  be- 
tween her  and  the  door,  intercepting  her.  She  falls 
back,  so  that  they  are  some  paces  apart.  There  is 
a  slight  pause.  They  stand  looking  at  each  other. 
Her  breast  heaving)  Why? 

WAVERTON.  (By  door  R.IE.J  You  and  I  can't 
part  like  this! 

MARGARET.    (Down  R.)    We  must. 

WAVERTON.  (In  a  low  voice)  Let  me  see  your 
face. 

MARGARET.     No. 

WAVERTON.  I  ask  it  with — with  the  deepest  re- 
spect. 

MARGARET.     I  don't  want  you  to  see  my  face. 

WAVERTON.  I  know  your  face — as  well  as  you 
know  mine. 

MARGARET.  Please  let  me  go  now — for — for 
both  our  sakes.  (Slight  pause) 

WAVERTON.  You  are  right.  When  a  woman 
wishes  to  conceal  something  a  man  can  only — (He 
walks  to  the  door) 

MARGARET.  Conceal?  (At  the  suggestion  of 
concealment,  she  starts  with  indignation.  Then  she 
impulsively  raises  her  veil  and  pushes  her  hat 
slightly  back,  fully  revealing  her  face.  WAVERTON, 
with  his  hand  on  the  doorknob,  turns  and  sees 
her) 

WAVERTON.  (In  a  low  voice)  Margaret !  Mar- 
garet Summers!  Did  you  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  I  wouldn't  know  you? 

MARGARET.  (Her  breast  heaving)  I — I  hoped 
not. 

WAVERTON.     You  knew  me? 

MARGARET.  Directly  I  heard  your  voice  down- 
stairs. I  wouldn't  have  come  up,  only  I  feared  the 
fog  would  kill  me,  and — and  I  don't  want  to  die. 


PASSERS-BY  29 

WAVERTON.  But  why — in  God's  name,  Mar- 
garet, why  wish  to  avoid  me?  (Slight  pause — She 
is  silent)  After  six  years.  Why?  (Impatiently) 
Why? 

MARGARET.     I  knew  you  didn't  want  to  see  me. 

WAVERTON.  (Down  R.J  But  I  did.  Good 
Heavens !  how  you  wrong  me.  I  advertised  for  you 
— I  employed  agents  to  look  for  you  for  months — 
years — and  you  tell  me  now —  Please  sit  down. 

MARGARET.    I — I  want  to  go  now. 

WAVERTON.  (Firmly)  I  beg  you  to  do  as  I  ask. 
You  are  still  faint  and  ill.  (She  sits  chair  L.  of 
table  R.)  Now,  tell  me,  why  did  you  leave  my  step- 
sister's house? 

MARGARET.    She  turned  me  away. 

WAVERTON.  (Surprised  and  shocked)  She 
turned  you  away? 

MARGARET.    Yes. 

WAVERTON.  (Sits  R.  of  table  R.J  She  told  me 
you  were  called  away — that  you  had  been  engaged 
to  a  place  abroad. 

MARGARET.     It  wasn't  true. 

WAVERTON.  You  mean  she  lied.  She  would! 
But  for  a  time  I  believed  her.  Then  I  began  to 
doubt,  for  I  grew  to  know  her  better. 

MARGARET.  I  have  no  right  to  speak  unkindly 
of  Lady  Hurley. 

WAVERTON.     I  have.    What  excuse  did  she  give? 

MARGARET.  None.  She  said  I  would  under- 
stand. 

WAVERTON.  (After  a  slight  pause)  She  had 
been  spying  on  us. 

MARGARET.  Possibly,  and  in  the  circumstances 
she  didn't  consider  me  a  proper  governess  for  her 
children.  (Movement  from  WAVERTON,)  Any 
other  mother  would  have  done  the  same. 

WAVERTON.     She  shouldn't  have  lied  to  me. 

MARGARET.     She  thought  it  her  duty. 


30  PASSERS-BY 

WAVERTON.  She  must  have  known  the  fault  was 
all  mine. 

MARGARET.     No,  Peter — it  was  ours. 

WAVERTON.  All  mine — for  I  was  two  years 
older  and  should  have  been  wiser.  But  I  was  in 
love  and  thoughtless,  Margaret. 

MARGARET.  (  Laying  R.  hand  on  muff)  We  were 
both  in  love  and  thoughtless,  Peter. 

WAVERTON.  (In  a  low  voice)  And  the  Spring 
was  in  our  hearts.  (He  takes  her  R.  hand)  Mar- 
garet ! 

MARGARET.  Don't!  I  have  a  work-woman's 
hands  now.  ( She  withdraws  her  hand) 

WAVERTON.  Why  didn't  you  write  to  me?  Why 
didn't  you  give  me  a  chance? 

MARGARET.     I  wrote  to  you — twice. 

WAVERTON.  (Startled)  How  do  you  mean — you 
wrote  to  me? 

MARGARET.  The  first  time  I  gave  a  post-office 
address — the  second  time  the  lodgings  I  am  still  in. 

WAVERTON.     You're  sure  of  this? 

MARGARET.     Absolutely ! 

WAVERTON.  (Rises  slowly)  Margaret,  I  never 
had  your  letters.  (There  is  a  pause,  while  they  both 
look  at  each  other) 

MARGARET.  (Rises)  I  addressed  them  to  your 
sister's  house. 

WAVERTON.  Then  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  it's  horrible! 
Amelia,  my  step-sister,  must  have 

MARGARET.  (Quietly)  You  mustn't  say  it.  It 
isn't  fair;  letters  sometimes  get  lost  in  the  post. 

WAVERTON.  That  woman!  I've  forgiven  her 
much.  This  I'll  never  forgive. 

MARGARET.     She  did  what  she  thought  right. 

WAVERTON.  And  you  never  knew  of  my  in- 
quiries ? 

MARGARET.  No.  It's  so  easy  to  be  lost  in  Lon- 
don. 


PASSERS-BY  31 

WAVERTON.     Margaret!     My  poor  Margaret! 

MARGARET.  Naturally,  Lady  Hurley  gave  me  no 
reference.  I  had  no  chance  of  getting  another  place, 
and  I  had  no  relation  living.  (Movement  from 
WAVERTON )  I  do  sewing  for  the  shops  now ;  have 
done  for  a  long  time.  I  make  seven  shillings  a 
day. 

WAVERTON.     You  are  wonderful! 

MARGARET.  Oh,  no !  I  couldn't  have  done  it  for 
myself. 

WAVERTON.    (Slowly)    There  was  some  one  else  ? 

MARGARET.  (Slowly)  Yes  —  there  —  there 

was (Then  pathetically)  Oh,  let  me  go — 

please  let  me  go  now !  I'm  not  strong  enough  to 
bear  any  more 

WAVERTON.  (R.  of  table,  R.J  Tell  me — be  frank 
— who  else  was  there? 

MARGARET.  (L.  corner  of  table  R.,  slowly)  There 
was — the  child. 

WAVERTON.     The  child?    Your  child? 

MARGARET.    Yes. 

WAVERTON.     Oh,  then  you're 

MARGARET.     Our  child,  Peter. 

WAVERTON.    Our  child? 

MARGARET.     Yes — a  little  boy. 

WAVERTON.    (In  a  low  voice)    Margaret! 

MARGARET.  (Suffering,  goes  L.  to  fireplace,  then 
goes  round  sofa  and  works  up  L.  and  round  to  c.) 
You  shouldn't  have  made  me  tell  you.  It  hurts. 
And  you  needn't  be  embarrassed  for  me,  Peter. 
I'm  not  ashamed,  and  I've  no  remorse.  He's  my 
child.  I've  won  him,  and  he's  mine  only.  He  needs 
no  one  but  me,  and  he — he's  the  very  breath  of  my 
heart.  And  now  forget — please  forget  that  I've  told 
you.  It's  been  strange  and  wonderful  seeing  you 
again — but (c.) 

WAVERTON.  (L.  of  table  R.)  Wait,  Margaret! 
You  don't  understand — I'm  not  embarrassed — only 


32  PASSERS-BY 

— only  full  of  wonder.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  so 
much  more.  What  is  the  boy's  name? 

MARGARET.    Peter. 

WAVERTON.  (Visibly  touched^  Peter?  (Goes 
up  R.  to  L.)  Look  at  it  out  there ;  it's  awful !  (Slight 
pause)  Where  is  the  boy  now? 

MARGARET.  (Down  by  table  R.cJ  He's  at  home 
with  my  landlady.  She  always  puts  him  to  bed 
when  I  work  late. 

WAVERTON.  (Comes  down  L.C.)  Margaret,  I — I 
don't  know  what  to  say.  If  I  seem  awkward  and 
shy,  you  must  try  and  understand — and  forgive  me. 
I  can't  realise  in  a  moment  all  that  this  means — the 
change  it  makes  in  one's  sympathies  and  view  of 
life.  ("MARGARET  coughs.  He  walks  to  bell  and 
rings,  then  says  firmly)  One  thing  is  certain,  you 
can't  go  out  into  that  fog. 

MARGARET.    Peter,  I  must.    I  must  go  home. 

WAVERTON.  (Firmly)  It's  a  practical  impossi- 
bility— besides,  you're  as  pale  as  a  ghost. 

MARGARET.    (Faintly)    I — I'm  all  right,  Peter. 

WAVERTON.  I  know  better.  If  I  can't  think  for 
myself,  at  least  I  can  think  for  you.  (Gently  forces 
her  into  chair  R.C.) 

(Enter  PINE  R.2E.J 

WAVERTON.    (To  PINE,)    Make  me  a  shakedown 

on  the  sofa  and  bring  a  dressing  suit. 
PINE.    Yes,  sir.    (Crosses  L.  up  stage) 
WAVERTON.    And  Pine.    (TiNE  stops)    Has  Mrs. 

Parker  gone  to  bed? 
PINE.     Not  yet,  sir. 
WAVERTON.     Send  her  to  me. 
PINE.    Yes,  sir.  (Exit  PINE 

MARGARET.     I'm  really  all  right  now — and 

WAVERTON.       (Thoroughly    himself    now,    and 

speaking  with  decision)    You  are  not  going  out  into 


PASSERS-BY  33 

that  fog  to-night.  You  are  going  to  have  my  room. 
Fortunately  there's  a  woman  in  the  house — my  old 
cook-housekeeper.  (Goes  L.)  She  will  look  after 
you  in  the  morning. 

MARGARET.  (Rises)  I  mustn't  stay,  Peter — I'm 
so  tired  I  should  sleep  late. 

(Warn  curtain) 

WAVERTON.    (Cheerily)    So  much  the  better. 
(Enter  MRS.  PARKER  R.  up) 

WAVERTON.  Mrs.  Parker,  I'm  going  to  have  a 
shake-down  here  to-night.  This  lady  who  has 
been  caught  in  the  fog  will  have  my  room.  You'll 
see  that  she's  comfortable,  please. 

MRS.    PARKER.    Yes,    sir. 

(Exit  MRS.  PARKER,  L. 

MARGARET.  But  my  landlady  and  the  child  would 
be  alarmed. 

WAVERTON.  True,  you  must  write  a  message. 
(Up  to  window  and  looks  out)  You  see  it's  hope- 
less. ( MARGARET  goes  to  window  and  looks  out. 
Goes  to  desk)  It  shall  be  sent  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  (She  sits  at  writing-table.  He  arranges 
paper  for  her  to  write  and  discreetly  walks  away  to 
c.  Pause.  He  is  thoughtful)  Let  me  see — the 
boy  must  now  be ? 

MARGARET.     Six  next  April. 

WAVERTON.  (Still  cheerfully)  Six  next  April! 
Six  next  April !  (Enter  PINE  L.  with  the  things  or- 
dered, which  he  spreads  on  couch.  MARGARET  has 
now  finished  writing.  WAVERTON  goes  to  her.  She 
hands  him  the  message.  To  PINE,  handing  him 
telegram)  This  must  go  the  very  first  thing  in  the 
morning. 

PINE.  Yes,  sir.  ( MARGARET  rises,  goes  to  piano, 
and  picks  up  her  hat) 

WAVERTON.     If  the  fog  has  lifted  send  it  by  a 


34  PASSERS-BY 

taxi.     If  not  telegraph  it  through  the  telephone. 

PINE.     Yes  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (To  MARGARET )  That  door  on  the 
left  where  the  light  is.  Get  some  sleep — you  need 
it.  To-morrow  we'll  talk.  (  MARGARET  looks  out  of 
window  through  curtains  in. a  last  hope  that  the  fog 
has  cleared) 

MARGARET.  (Faintly)  Thank  you,  Peter — Good 
night ! 

WAVERTON.  (Taking  her  hand)  Bless  you. 
Good  night !  (Exit  MARGARET,  L. 

PINE.    Anything  else,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  Yes — another  log.  (PiNE  puts  log 
on  fire,  then  goes  round  top  of  writing-table  to  c,) 

PINE.     Good  night,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (Mechanically)  Good  night,  Pine. 
(He  is  deep  in  thought.  Exit  PINE,  R.2E.  WAVER- 
TON goes  over  R.  and  switches  off  electric  light;  then 
goes  L.  to  fireplace  and  takes  a  cigarette  case  from 
his  pocket.  Finding  it  empty,  however,  he  takes  a 
cigarette  from  a  silver  box  on  the  writing-table,  and 
is  about  to  light  it  when  he  notices  the  framed  photo- 
graph of  BEATRICE,  which  is  also  on  the  table.  He 
takes  it  up  and  looks  at  it  thoughtfully  while  he  re- 
clines on  the  sofa;  then  he  gently  replaces  it  on  the 
writing-table  and  sinks  into  a  deep  meditation.  The 
stage  is  now  lighted  only  by  the  red  glow  from  the 
fire. 

CURTAIN 


ACT  II 

SCENE  :    Same  as  Act  I. 

It  is  nine  o'clock  on  the  following  morning. 

On  the  curtain  rising  the  room  is  in  a  dim  light. 

WAVERTON  is  asleep  on  the  improvised  bed. 

A  slight  pause  after  the  curtain  is  raised;  then 

a  ringing  and  knocking  at  the  hall  door  is  heard. 

WAVERTON  is  disturbed.    He  raises  himself  on 

his  elbow. 

WAVERTON.    What  the  devil ?    (He  listens. 

The  distant  sounds  of  a  door  being  opened  and  shut 
and  of  voices  are  heard.  Then  there  is  silence. 
WAVERTON  turns  over  as  if  to  sleep  again.  The 
door  is  cautiously  and  silently  opened  and  enter 
PINE,  R.IE.,  with  letters  which  he  places  on  writ- 
ing-table) 

PINE.    (In  a  low  voice)    Are  you  still  asleep,  sir? 

WAVERTON.     Yes.    What  is  it? 

PINE.  It's  as  I  feared,  sir.  I  'ad  a  foreboding — 
also  a  dream. 

WAVERTON.  (Sitting  up  and  speaking  crossly) 
Pine,  if  you  are  to  stay  on  with  me  you  must  dis- 
courage fears,  forebodings  and  dreams. 

PINE.     Very  good,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (With  a  huge  yawn)  You  know 
very  well  the  morning  isn't  my  best  time.  Now,  out 
with  it!  What's  the  matter?  (With  anxiety) 
Mrs.  Summers  hasn't  gone? 

PINE.     No,  sir.    It's  that  'orrible  man  again. 

WAVERTON.     What  horrible  man? 

PINE.    (R.  end  of  sofa)    Burns,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  You  must  also  learn  to  speak  re- 
spectfully of  my  friends. 

PINE.     Yes,  sir. 

35 


36  PASSERS-BY 

WAVERTON.  What  does  Mr.  Burns  want  at  this 
hour  of  the  morning?  (Looks  at  clock  on  mantel) 
Breakfast,  I  suppose. 

PINE.     He  was  brought  by  a  policeman,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     A  policeman?    This  is  serious. 

PINE.     I  knew  you'd  be  disappointed  in  him,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     What's  he  been  doing? 

PINE.     He's  been  getting  himself  hurt,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  Hurt?  Poor  old  Burns!  Draw  up 
the  blinds.  ( PINE  does  so,  revealing  a  bright  winter 
morning.  WAVERTON  gets  out  of  bed,  still  ivearing 
his  dressing-suit,  and  puts  on  his  slippers)  Is  he 
badly  hurt? 

PINE.  He  can  walk  all  right,  sir.  (Sarcastic- 
ally) He  was  always  good  on  his  pins. 

WAVERTON.     Yes — I  remember.     Bring  him  in. 

PINE.     And  the  policeman  too,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  No.  Give  him  half  a  crown  and 
send  him  away.  Damn  it!  This  isn't  a  public  in- 
stitution. 

PINE.  (Going  down  R.  and  speaking  "half 
aloud" )  It  seems  to  appertain  to  that  nature. 

WAVERTON.    (Sharply)    What's  that? 

PINE.  (Unblushing)  I  was  saying  I'm  sorry 
your  privacy  should  be  disturbed,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  That's  my  affair.  (Exit  PINE,  R.IE. 
WAVERTON  goes  to  the  window,  throws  it  open  and 
breathes  deeply  of  the  fresh  air.  Distant  noise  of 
traffic,  and  door  being  closed.  WAVERTON  closes 
window.  Enter  BURNS  and  PINE,  R.IE.  PINE  closes 
door.  Comes  down  quickly)  Ah,  Burns,  my  poor 
fellow,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 

BURNS.  (With  some  insistence)  You  sa^  to 
me,  you  say,  "Come  an'  see  me  again,"  you  say. 
"W'en  things  is  bad." 

WAVERTON.  My  very  words.  You  will  notice 
another  quality  in  Mr.  Burns,  Pine;  he  has  an  ex- 
cellent memory. 


PASSERS-BY  37 

BURNS.  (R.)  Things  is  bad,  so  I  come.  (He 
points  to  PINE)  That  gent  'e  tries  to  stop  me  at  the 
door.  (This  a  little  vindictively)  'Is  words  was 
"It's  a  bit  too  thick !" 

WAVERTON.    (By  chair  L.C.  sternly)    Pine! 

PINE.  (Down  R.)  I  'adn't  understood  the  invi- 
tation was  to  be  considered  serious,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     Is  it  true  you  are  hurt,  Burns? 

BURNS.  I  was  run  over  in  the  fog  by  a  milk  cart, 
mister — leastways  knocked  down. 

WAVERTON.  My  poor  fellow — sit  down!  That 
chair,  Pine.  (PiNE  crosses  behind  table  R.  and  gives 
BURNS  a  chair.  BURNS  sits  R.c.  WAVERTON  lights 
a  cigarette) 

PINE.  (Behind  table  R.  in  a  low  voice  to  BURNS,) 
Your  cap! 

BURNS.  (Who  has  apparently  grown  to  recipro- 
cate PINE'S  dislike)  Oh  blow!  (He  removes  his 
cap,  however) 

WAVERTON.  (Going  to  BURNS,)  Any  bones 
broken  ? 

BURNS.  I  didn't  'ear  anything,  but  me  side  'urts 
me —  urts  me  bad — 'ere.  (Indicating  his  left  side) 

WAVERTON.  Ah,  I  see  the  mark  on  your  over- 
coat, where  the  wheel  struck  you.  Poor  fellow ! 
(Cheerily)  Well,  we  must  get  you  along  to  the 
hospital. 

BURNS.  (Alarmed)  'Orspital!  Not  me!  That's 
what  the  cop  say  w'en  'e  f  oun'  me  restin'  on  a  door- 
step. I  don't  'old  with  'orspitals.  I've  'eard  tales 
about  'em.  They're  not  well  spoke  of.  (Pause. 
WAVERTON  is  in  a  grave  difficulty,  goes  up  L.C.  a 
little.  PINE  rather  pleased,  watches  him.  Anxious- 
ly and  with  emphasis)  You  say  to  me,  you  say 
"Come  an'  see  me  agin"  you  say 

WAVERTON.  (Turning  and  interrupting  him  and 
only  by  an  effort  subduing  his  impatience)  Yes, 
yes — I  have  a  vivid  recollection.  ( PINE'S  face 


38  PASSERS-BY 

breaks?  fully,  into  a  smile.  He  can  scarcely  hold 
back  his  laughter.  WAVERTON  looks  up  and  catches 
him.  PINE  covers  his  grinning  mouth  with  his 
hand.  Icily)  Pine,  (Motions  to  him  and  they  go 
down  ~L.)  you  appear  to  be  in  pain. 

PINE.  (Composing  himself)  It  was  nothing,  sir, 
just  a  spasm. 

WAVERTON.  When  you  have  recovered  from 
your  spasm  you  will  take  charge  of  Mr.  Burns. 

PINE.  (Flabbergasted)  Me — take  charge?  Ex- 
cuse me,  sir,  but 

WAVERTON.  (Down  L.  turning  his  face  from 
PINE  to  conceal  a  smile)  Fm  disappointed  in  you, 
Pine.  I  thought  you  a  philanthropist ;  but  it  appears 
you  are  only  one  of  those  who  would  probe  the 
wounds  of  the  afflicted  with  inquisitive  fingers,  and 
do  nothing  to  heal  them. 

PINE.  (L.C.,)  Oh,  I'm  all  for  the  poor,  sir,  in  rea- 
son; but  this  one's  an  exception.  There's  some- 
thing h'ominous  about  him. 

WAVERTON.  Well,  he's  now  a  protege  of  the 
house,  and  he's  been  hurt,  so  I  recommend  him  to 
your  care.  (Crosses  up  to  n..) 

PINE.     (Eagerly)     Shall  I  get  your  things,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  (Going  to  door,  R.2E.J  No;  I'll  man- 
age by  myself.  You  stay  here  and  take  care  of  Mr. 
Burns.  Ring  up  Dr.  Wharton  and  ask  him  to  come 
round  at  once.  (To  BURNS  cheerily)  You're  all 
right,  Burns,  Pine'll  look  after  you.  (Exit  WAVER- 
TON, R.2E.  PINE  looks  at  BURNS  and  BURNS  looks 
at  PINE.  There  is  no  friendship  in  their  eyes) 

PINE.     This  is  what  comes  of  doing  a  kindness. 

BURNS.     'Oo  did  a  kindness? 

PINE.     Who  got  your  supper  last  night  ? 

BURNS.     'Oo  lost  me  the  Embankment? 

PINE.  Bah!  You  make  me  shiver.  (He  goes 
to  telephone) 

BURNS.    An'  got  me  'urt ! 


PASSERS-BY  39 

PINE.     Don't  talk  to  me ! 

BURNS.  'Is  words  to  you  was:  "Take  care  of 
Mr.  Burns." 

PINE.  (Ignoring  this — takes  receiver)  Seven, 
three,  double  five,  one,  Gerrard.  (Pause) 

BURNS.  (As  one  who  has  certain  established 
rights)  I  could  do  with  a  cup  o'  corfie. 

PINE.  (Into  telephone)  Could  I  speak  to  Dr. 
Wharton,  please?  ...  All  right.  (Pause) 

BURNS.  (With  insistence)  I  could  do  with  a 
cup  o'  corfie. 

PINE.  (Entirely  ignoring  BURNS  and  using  his 
best  'voice)  Is  that  you,  Dr.  Wharton  ?  Mr.  Wav- 
erton  wishes  me  to  present  his  compliments,  and  to 
ask  if  you  would  kindly  come  round  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. (Pause)  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  sir,  Mr.  Wav- 
erton  is  in  perfect  health,  but  there  is  a  person  who 
has  received  some  slight  hinjury  in  a  street  h'acci- 
dent.  A  sort  of  man  in  a  manner  o'  speakin'. 
Thank  you,  sir!  (Replaces  receiver  and  begins  to 
fold  bedclothes) 

BURNS.  If  you  'adn't  stopped  me  I'd  a'  got  to 
the  Embankment  and  then  to  the  "Salvation  Shel- 
ter." I'd  a'  been  drinkin'  a  nice  cup  o'  corfie  by 
now — 'ot. 

PINE.  And  been  put  on  a  couple  of  hours'  hard 
work  afterwards. 

BURNS.  (Quickly)  That's  where  you're  wrong, 
see?  I'd  a'  been  let  off  'cos  o'  bein'  delicate. 
(Slight  pause)  You've  been  unlucky  to  me. 

PINE.  (Goes  c.  and  up  to  BURNS  with  rug  over 
his  arm)  I  suppose,  my  good  man,  you've  never 
heard  the  word  "gratitude"  used,  have  you? 

BURNS.     I'm  no  scollard. 

PINE.  (Looking  down  at  him  with  deliberate 
pity)  I  gathered  as  much.  I  understand  your  case. 
I  think  I've  'card  it  called  arrested  mental  develop- 
ment. 


40  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.     Is  that  Latting? 

PINE.  It  means  a  kind  of  smear.  (He  is  going 
L.  with  the  rug,  ivhen  enter  MARGARET  L.,  fully 
dressed  for  going  away) 

MARGARET.    (  Up  L.  to  PINE )    Good  morning ! 

PINE.    (Up  c.)    Good  morning,  ma'am. 

MARGARET.  Will  you  please  tell  Mr.  Waver- 
ton 

PINE.     He'll  be  here  in  a  few  moments,  ma'am. 

MARGARET.    (Anxious)    Did  my  message  go? 

PINE.     Yes,  ma'am,  at  seven  o'clock. 

MARGARET.     You're  sure? 

PINE.     Yes,  ma'am. 

MARGARET.  (Relieved)  Thank  you.  (Then  she 
sees  BURNS,) 

PINE.  This  person  has  been  in  a  street  h'acci- 
dent. 

BURNS.     I  been  hurt. 

MARGARET.  ( The  mother  instinct  to  the  surface) 
Oh,  you  poor  fellow.  What  happened?  (Goes  to 
him) 

BURNS.  It  was  a  big  'orse  an*  cart.  (He  puts 
his  hand  to  his  side) 

MARGARET.  And  you're  hurt  in  the  side  and 
there's  a  wound  on  your  forehead.  (Turns  quickly 
to  PINE)  Do  bring  some  warm  water  and  a  towel. 
(Puts  muff  and  gloves  on  writing-table) 

PINE.  (With  mock  commiseration)  Certainly, 
miss.  Poor  chap!  (Exit  PINE  L. 

BURNS.     I  could  do  with  a  cup  o'  corfie. 

MARGARET.  Of  course,  you  shall  have  it.  I'm 
sure  that  Mr.  Waverton 

BURNS.     That's  the  other  one,  ain't  it? 

MARGARET.     He's  the  gentleman  of  the  house. 

BURNS.  'E's  all  right;  it's  this  one  that's  agin 
me. 

MARGARET.  Oh,  nonsense!  No  one's  against 
you.  I'm  sure  everybody  must  be  sorry  for  you. 


PASSERS-BY  41 

BURNS.  (Resentfully)  The  one  that's  gone  for 
the  water  (PiNE  enters  L.  with  a  basin  and  small 
towel)  tried  to  stop  me  comin'  in.  'Im!  (Pointing 
to  PINE.  MARGARET  takes  basin  and  towel  from 
PINE  and  puts  them  on  table  R.  She  then  dips  towel 
in  water  and  attends  to  bruise  on  BURNS'  forehead) 

PINE.  (Standing  by  with  affected  sympathy) 
Poor  chap ! 

MARGARET.  (To  PiNEj  Do  you  think  you  could 
manage  to  get  him  a  cup  of  coffee? 

PINE.  Yes,  miss.  (With  ill-concealed  sarcasm) 
He's  to  have  everything  he  wants.  Is  there  any- 
thing else  you  fancy,  my  poor  man? 

BURNS.     A  slice  o'  bread  and  butter — thick. 

PINE.  (Affecting  the  sick  room  manner  and  em- 
ploying a  low  and  pleasant  voice)  It  shall  have  hat- 
tention.  (He  tiptoes  down  R.  behind  table)  The 
doctor'll  be  here  presently,  miss.  (The  hall  door 
bell  is  heard.  Exit  PINE  R.IE.  closing  door) 

MARGARET.    (R.  of  BURNS,)    Is  that  better? 

BURNS.     It's  abart  the  same. 

MARGARET.     It's  a  pity  your  hair  is  so  thick. 

BURNS.     It's  always  been  like  that. 

MARGARET.  But  I  think  it  would  look  nicer  if  it 
was  cut  a  little  shorter. 

BURNS.     I  don't  'old  with  making  changes. 

MARGARET.     Well,  of  course,  it's  your  hair. 

BURNS.    (Uncompromisingly)    Yes,  it's  my  'air. 

(Enter  PINE  and  NIGHTY  R.IE.  NIGHTY  has  made 
his  top  hat  very  shiny,  and  has  a  new  pair  of 
yellow  gloves.  Exit  PINE  R.2E.  NIGHTY  shuts 
door  R.IE.  behind  him) 


NIGHTY.     Good  morning,  Miss! 
MARGARET.     Good  morning! 
NIGHTY.     Good  morning,  Burns! 
BURNS.    Mornin' ! 


42  PASSERS-BY 

NIGHTY.    (Down  R.)    Sorry  to  'ear  you've  been 
in  trouble. 
(Enter  Pine  R.2E.  with  coffee  and  bread  and  butter) 

BURNS.  I'd  a  been  all  right  if  that  bloke  'adn't 
stopped  me  goin'  to  the  Embankment. 

MARGARET.  (Taking  coffee,  etc.,  from  PINE) 
Here's  your  cup  of  coffee,  Mr.  Burns.  (Smiling, 
aside  to  NIGHTY)  I  think  he's  more  wounded  in 
spirit  than  body.  (Gives  PINE  basin,  etc.) 

NIGHTY.  (Taking  PINE  aside  R.)  Hadn't  I  bet- 
ter wait  outside?  (MARGARET  goes  to  desk  for  muff 
and  gloves,  then  up  to  window) 

PINE.  Lord,  no !  (Bitterly)  This  is  no  longer 
a  gentleman's  home;  it's  "come  one,  come  all"  as 
you  might  say. — You're  all  right,  the  guvnor's  taken 
you  to  his  heart.  As  for  that  Burns,  he's  his  ewe 
lamb.  I'm  the  only  one  to  suffer,  I'm  put  to  take 
care  of  that.  (Pointing  scornfully  at  BURNS) 

NIGHTY.  (Secretly  amused)  Bear  up,  Mr.  Pine, 
bear  up ! 

PINE.    (Earnestly)    Mark  my  words,  Nighty 

(Enter  WAVERTON  R.2E.     He  sees  MARGARET  first 
who  is  up  L.C.) 

WAVERTON.     Ah,  Margaret,  good  morning. 

MARGARET.    (Shaking  hands)    Good  morning. 

WAVERTON.  (Down  L.C.)  Glad  to  see  you've 
breakfasted,  Burns.  I  haven't.  Hello,  Nighty,  you 
are  a  swell. 

NIGHTY.  (Down  R.,  grinning)  Thought  I'd 
brush  meself  up  a  bit,  in  case  you  'ad  a  job  for  me, 
guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.  (Laughing)  Oh,  of  course,  you're 
on  the  staff  now.  I'll  find  you  a  job  presently,  but 
first  we  must  get  Burns  on  the  big  couch  in  the 
library. 

NIGHTY.  (Going  to  BURNS)  'Ere,  give  me  your 
arm.  (He  takes  BURNS  by  the  arm  and  leads  him 
up  to  door  R.2)  Easy  does  it. 


PASSERS-BY  43 

PINE.    (As  they  pass  him)    Poor  chap ! 

(Exit  BURNS  and  NIGHTY  R.2E. 

WAVERTON.  You  telephoned  to  Dr.  Wharton, 
Pine? 

PINE.     Yes,  sir,  Vs  coming. 

(Exit  with  basin  R.2E. 

WAVERTON.  (Goes  up  to  door  R.2E.  and  speaks 
off  through  door),  Pine,  Nighty  had  better  bring 
his  cab  over  and  wait  for  Mrs.  Summers. 

PINE.    ( Off)    Very  good,  sir.    ( WAVERTON  shuts 

door  R.2E.J 

MARGARET.     (Coming  down)     Good-bye,  Peter. 

WAVERTON.     Sit  down,  my  dear. 

MARGARET.  I  really  must  go  now,  Peter.  I  have 
my  work  to  do.  I  only  want  to  thank  you  first 
for 

WAVERTON.  (Interrupting  her)  Ssh!  Ssh! 
(Takes  her  muff  and  wrap  from  her  and  places  them 
on  table  R.  She  sits  chair  L.C.  He  is  very  thought- 
ful) Margaret,  now  that  I've  found  you  I  want 
you  to  let  me  be  a  friend  to  you. 

MARGARET.  (Embarrassed)  But  Peter — of 
course. 

WAVERTON.  (L.  of  table  R.)  I  want  your  per- 
mission to  try  and  make  up — a  little — for  all  you 
have  gone  through. 

MARGARET.  You  are  very  kind.  But  I  have  gone 
through  nothing  that  hasn't  been  of  good  to  me. 
You  needn't  trouble  about  us,  Peter.  (She  smiles) 
We're  in  harbour,  now. 

WAVERTON.  You  mean  you  and — and  little 
Peter? 

MARGARET.  (Still  smiling)  He  and  I  are  all 
right — and  I  am  proud — perhaps  too  proud.  Pride 
is  my  besetting  sin,  you  know. 

WAVERTON.  I  know  it  is,  and  I'm  a  little  fright- 
ened of  it.  But — but — you  won't  refuse  to  let  me 
help  you.  (He  says  this  pleadingly) 


44  PASSERS-BY 

MARGARET.  I — I  think  you  must  let  me  go  on  in 
my  own  way. 

WAVERTON.  (Turning  away  from  her  and  with 
a  touch  of  disappointment  in  his  voice)  It's  natural 
that  you  should  take  this  attitude,  but  it  makes  me 
think  you  hate  me  and  I — I  don't  quite  deserve  that. 
(Goes  R.  a  little  L.  of  table) 

MARGARET.  (Lifting  her  face  suddenly  brimming 
over  with  affection)  Hate  you!  Oh,  Peter! 
( WAVERTON  turns  back  to  her  quickly) 

WAVERTON.  Then  if  you  don't  hate  me  you'll  let 
me  help  you  with  the  boy.  He'll  need  properly 
bringing  up. 

MARGARET.  (Rather  coldly)  I'm  doing  my  best, 
Peter. 

WAVERTON.  (c.)  I  know — and  you're  an  angel 
— but  I  can  do  so  much  too — in  my  way.  I  have  the 
means  and  the  leisure.  A  boy  needs  a  man  friend. 
And  his  best  friend  should  be  his  father. 

MARGARET.    (Firmly)    He's  my  boy,  Peter. 

WAVERTON.  (With  equal  firmness)  He's  our 
boy.  (Their  eyes  meet — slight  pause — MARGARET 
rises)  I  want  to  see  him. 

MARGARET.  (Distrustfully,  unconsciously  her 
hand  on  the  photograph  of  BEATRICE,  which  is  on 
the  desk  against  which  she  stands)  Oh,  you  shall 
see  him !  But — but  whom  shall  I  tell  him  you  are  ? 
(Looking  at  him) 

WAVERTON.  (Flushing  slightly)  Tell  him — for 
the  present — damn  it,  he's  only  a  baby,  tell 
him  that  I  am  his  mother's  and  his  own  best 
friend. 

MARGARET.  (Picks  up  photograph)  Very  well, 
I'll  tell  him. 

WAVERTON.  (Thoughtfully)  And,  Margaret — 
there's  much  to  be  considered.  For  one  thing  I 
really  can't  allow  you  to  continue  working — as  you 
do.  (Goes  down  R.  a  little) 


PASSERS-BY  45 

MARGARET.    (Quickly)    Why  not? 

WAVERTON.  It's  only  fair  and  reasonable  and 
just  that  I  should 

MARGARET.  (In  her  embarrassment  holding  the 
photograph  in  both  hands)  Peter,  I  have  two  price- 
less things  in  the  world — my  child  and  my  independ- 
ence. I  shall  cling  desperately  to  them  both. 

WAVERTON.  (Gently,  as  he  goes  to  her  c.)  My 
dear,  can't  you  be  generous  and  help  me  to  win  one 
priceless  thing — my  self-respect?  Now  do  put  that 
picture  down  and  talk  sense.  (He  stretches  his 
hand  for  the  photograph) 

MARGARET.  (Looking  at  the  photograph  before 
releasing  it)  What  a  pretty  face!  ( WAVERTON 
takes  photograph  and  glances  at  it) 

WAVERTON.  Yes.  (He  is  rather  embarrassed) 
Perhaps — perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  tell  you  who 
it  is.  Her  name  is  Beatrice  Dainton.  She  is  an 
orphan,  and  a  niece  of  Lord  Hurley.  My  sister 
chaperones  her  and — Beatrice  and  I  are  engaged. 
(He  is  not  looking  at  MARGARET  when  he  makes  this 
announcement.  He  goes  round  top  of  writing-table, 
replaces  photograph,  and  then  goes  down  to  fire- 
place. MARGARET  starts  and  turns  pale.  The  news 
given  wounds  her  deeply,  but  she  is  determined  not 
to  show  it.  WAVERTON  now  speaks  quickly,  to 
cloak  his  embarrassment)  Now  let's  get  back  to 
what  we  were  saying,  and  do  let  me  beg  of  you,  my 
dear,  to  be  sensible. 

MARGARET.  (Bravely  holding  her  emotion  in 
check  and  speaking  rapidly,  her  back  turned  to  him) 
I'm  quite  sensible,  Peter,  and  nothing  you  can  say 
will  change  my  point  of  view.  You  may  call  it 
pride  or  a  spirit  of  foolish  independence — but — but 
there  it  is.  We'll  go  our  way  and  come  out  all 
right ;  but  our  way — the  way  of  my  little  boy  and 
me — isn't  your  way,  Peter — and  though  you  mean 
to  be  kind  and  sweet — I  know  you  do — (She  sud- 


46  PASSERS-BY 

denly  turns  away  to  fight  her  emotion  and  walks 
to  the  piano) 

WAVERTON.  (Looking  after  her  wonderingly  and 
going  L.C.)  Margaret!  (There  is  a  pause  while 
MARGARET  recovers  her  self-control.  Then  she 
comes  down,  her  face  quite  composed) 

MARGARET,  (c.  In  almost  conventional  tones) 
We  must  part  now,  Peter — thank  you  for  all  your 
kindness 

WAVERTON.  (L.C.)  I'm  afraid  I've  said  some- 
thing to  hurt  you. 

MARGARET.  (Perfectly  self-possessed)  Indeed 
no — I  assure  you.  I  was  very  interested  about 
your  engagement,  because — because  I,  too,  am  en- 
gaged. 

WAVERTON.  (Amazed  and  displeased)  You — 
engaged ! 

MARGARET.  (Simply)  Yes,  Peter.  (If  WAVER- 
TON were  not  angry  he  would  suspect  she  is  not 
speaking  the  truth) 

WAVERTON.     To  whom? 

MARGARET.  To  a  man — a  man  who  is  doing  well 
in  business. 

WAVERTON.     What's  his  name  ? 

MARGARET.     Henry. 

WAVERTON.     Henry  what? 

MARGARET.  Henry — (the  slightest  hesitation 
while  she  invents  the  name)  Henry  Robinson. 

WAVERTON.  (With  a  bad  attempt  at  indifference) 
Oh,  really ! 

MARGARET.  Yes.  (She  secretly  gives  him  a  side- 
long glance) 

WAVERTON.  (Lamely)  Seems  a  funny  thing  to 
do — to  get  engaged. 

MARGARET.     Why  ? 

WAVERTON.  Oh,  well — one  would  have  thought 
you  would  have  waited. 

MARGARET.    For  what,  Peter? 


PASSERS-BY  47 

WAVERTON.  I  mean  I  thought  you  had  devoted 
your  life  to  the  boy. 

MARGARET.  Perhaps  I  did  it  for  his  sake.  (There 
is  a  pause.  WAVERTON  fidgets  about,  frowning) 

WAVERTON.  Well,  I — I  wish  you  joy — with  all 
my  heart. 

MARGARET.  As  I  do  you,  Peter.  (Slight  pause. 
Suddenly  she  offers  him  her  hand  frankly)  Good- 
bye. 

WAVERTON.  (Taking  her  hand)  You'll  bring  the 
boy  to  see  me — now — this  morning.  Nighty  can 
wait  for  you. 

MARGARET.  (Withdrawing  her  hand)  It's  so 
useless.  It  can  lead  to  nothing  good,  and  might 
make  the  child  dissatisfied.  (Picks  up  her  muff  and 
wrap  -from  table  R.) 

WAVERTON.  (Disappointed)  All  right,  Margaret 
— only — I  don't  like  to  talk  of  it — it  makes  me  so 
self-conscious — this  youngster  of  yours — I  should 
have  liked  to  see  him — liked  it  very  much.  (Goes 
up  c.  facing  up.  A  movement  towards  him  by  MAR- 
GARET; then  she  restrains  herself.  Pause — WAVER- 
TON leans  against  piano,  a  sly  smile  suddenly  lights 
his  face,  but  he  doesn't  let  her  see  it.  MARGARET 
goes  to  door  R.)  You  needn't  fear  my  being  disap- 
pointed if  the  boy  happens  to  be  plain,  Margaret. 

MARGARET.  (Comes  L.  a  little,  indignant)  Plain ! 
Peter  plain! 

WAVERTON.  (Comes  down  c.)  Children  some- 
times improve,  and  after  all  "handsome  is  as  hand- 
some does " 

MARGARET.  (With  much  indignation)  Peter 
plain!  He's  a  perfectly  beautiful  child. 

WAVERTON.  (Calmly)  Ah,  a  mother  would  nat- 
urally  

MARGARET.  (Going  quickly  to  door)  You  shall 
see  for  yourself.  I'll  be  about  twenty  minutes. 

(Exit  MARGARET  quickly  R.IE. 


48  PASSERS-BY 

WAVERTON.  (Calling  after  her  through  door) 
Very  well.  I'll  wait  for  you.  (The  outer  door  clos- 
ing is  heard.  He  closes  door  R.IE.  and  goes  quickly 
to  window  and  looks  out  and  down  into  the  street, 
watching  NIGHTY'S  cab  start.  Then  he  comes  down 
to  writing-table  and  begins  to  open  his  letters.  En- 
ter PINE  R.2E.  with  breakfast  tray,  which  he  puts  on 
a  table  R.  Sits  at  writing-table)  Give  me  some  cof- 
fee. That's  all  I  want.  (He  continues  to  open 
and  read  letters)  How  is  our  interesting  pa- 
tient? 

PINE.  He's  resting,  sir,  after  the  fatigue  of  see- 
ing the  doctor.  (Pouring  out  coffee) 

WAVERTON.  (Looking  up,  interested,  from  a  let- 
ter he  is  reading)  Oh,  Dr.  Wharton  has  been  here? 

PINE.     Yes,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     Well? 

PINE.  (Crossing  to  WAVERTON  with  coffee)  Dr. 
Wharton  was  cheerful  about  Mr.  Burns'  injuries. 
His  diagnosis  was  a  small  shock  to  nervous  system 
calling  for  an  hour  or  two's  rest.  For  slight  wound 
on  head  he  prescribed  cold  water  and  reduction  of 
hair.  For  slight  bruise  on  side,  he  prescribed  tinc- 
ture of  h'arnica. 

WAVERTON.     Well,  that's  easy. 

PINE.  He  also  prescribed  a  bath  and  change  of 
underwear. 

WAVERTON.  (Smiling  and  drinking  coffee)  He 
said  nothing  about  carriage  exercise? 

PINE.  Not  yet,  sir;  but  I'm  sure  if  you  give  Dr. 
Wharton  a  chance 

WAVERTON.  (Interrupting  him,  rises  and  crosses 
to  table  R.,  takes  toast  from  rack  and  butters  it) 
Pine,  you  don't  like  Mr.  Burns. 

PINE.  (Hypocritically)  Me,  sir?  I'm  sure  that 
all  God's  creatures 

WAVERTON.  No  nonsense  with  me,  Pine.  I 
know  you  don't  like  him.  Now,  for  my  part,  I 


PASSERS-BY  49 

entertain  for  him  that  tolerant  affection  that  I  should 
have  for  any  lost  mongrel  that  I  chanced  to  be- 
friend. ...  I  want  to  do  something  to  uplift 

PINE.  Uplift!  That  class!  Excuse  me,  sir! 
(He  sniggers.  He  takes  coffee-cup  and  replaces  it 
on  tray,  table  R.) 

WAVERTON.  Don't  snigger,  Pine.  It  annoys  me. 
Now,  I'm  sure  if  Burns  were  cleaned  up  and  given 
some  light  employment 

PINE.  The  employment  might  be  possible,  sir; 

but  in  regards  to  the  cleaning  up (He  makes 

an  expressive  gesture  of  disgust) 

WAVERTON.  (L.  of  table  R.,  firmly)  When  Mr. 
Burns  is  rested,  you  will  conduct  him  to  the  bath- 
room— the  servants'  bath-room — and  lock  him  in 
until  he  has  availed  himself  of  its  resources.  You 
will  burn  his  clothes  and  furnish  him  with  a  suf- 
ficiency of  your  own,  which  I  will  replace  for  you. 

PINE.    (R.  of  table  RV  resignedly)    Yes,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  You  will  arrange  a  shakedown  for 
him  in  the  box-room.  When  he  is  well  enough  you 
can  make  him  a  sort  of  odd-job  man.  He  shall 
have  a  trial  any  way.  ( Crosses  to  writing-table  and 
sits  L.C.  PINE  is  looking  lugubrious) 

PINE.  And  with  respect  to  his  beard,  sir?  It's 
a  shocking  happendage. 

WAVERTON.  (Abstractedly  as  he  reads  a  letter) 
Oh,  that  must  come  off. 

PINE.  (Brightening  considerably  and  taking 
breakfast-tray)  Good!  I'll  call  in  a  barber,  sir. 
(Exit  PINE  R.2E.  WAVERTON  gathers  his  letters  to- 
gether on  writing-desk.  He  rises  and  looks  at  his 
watch) 

WAVERTON.  Good  heavens!  I  forgot!  (He 
hesitates  for  a  moment,  then  takes  up  the  telephone 
receiver)  Hello,  hello  .  .  .  give  me  17004  May- 
fair.  .  .  .  Hello — is  that  17004?  ...  Is  that  you, 


50  PASSERS-BY 

Simpson?  .  .  .  Yes — I'm  Mr.  Peter.  I  want  you 
to  tell,  her  ladyship  that  I'm  extremely  sorry,  but 
business  of  the  gravest  importance — what?  .  .  . 
Her  ladyship  has  left  the  house  in  the  motor  .  .  . 
and  Miss  Dainton?  Oh  .  .  .  they're  calling  for  me 
here.  Thank  you,  that  will  do.  (He  puts  down  re- 
ceiver) The  Devil!  (A  thoughtful  pause.  He 
touches  the  bell.  Enter  PINE  R.2E.J  Pine,  I'm  in 
an  awful  hole.  I  had  quite  forgotten  an  engage- 
ment I  made  to  motor  down  into  Hertfordshire  this 
morning  with  her  ladyship  and  Miss  Dainton.  Now 
I've  asked  Mrs.  Summers  to  come  back,  and 

PINE.  (Discreetly)  Perhaps  I  could  invent  some 
little (The  door  bell  is  heard) 

WAVERTON.  (Dryly)  Some  little  lie.  I've  no 
doubt  you  could,  but  if  that's  her  ladyship  it's  too 
late. 

PINE.     Shall  you  be  at  home,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  I'm  afraid  I've  got  to  be  at  home. 
(Exit  PINE  R.IE.  WAVERTON  walks  about  ner- 
vously. Re-enter  PINE  R.IE.,) 

PINE.     (Announcing  them)     Lady  Hurley  and 

Miss  Dainton,  sir.  fPiNE  exits  R.IE. 

(Enter    LADY    HURLEY    and    BEATRICE    DAINTON. 

LADY  HURLEY  is  a  well-preserved  woman  of 

about  forty-seven,  of  rather  severe  aspect  and 

a  forceful  personality.     BEATRICE  Is  a  pretty 

girl  of  about  twenty-three,  with  an  habitually 

quizzical  expression  and  humorous  eyes.    Both 

ladies  are  dressed  suitably  for  motoring  into 

the  country  for  luncheon) 

WAVERTON.  (Adopting  an  extremely  agreeable 
tone)  Good  morning,  Amelia  (He  kisses  her  lady- 
ship) Good  morning,  Bee.  (He  kisses  BEATRICE^ 

BEATRICE.  Good  morning,  Peter.  (Crosses 
down  L.  to  fireplace) 

WAVERTON.  (L.C.)  You  didn't  get  my  message 
then? 


PASSERS-BY  51 

LADY  HURLEY.    (R.cJ    What  message? 

WAVERTON.     I've  just  rung  up  the  house. 

LADY  HURLEY.     We  have  just  left  the  house. 

WAVERTON.  But  I  unfortunately  rang  up  after 
you  had  left. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Then  how  could  we  have  had 
your  message  ? 

WAVERTON.     (Thoughtfully)     True. 

BEATRICE.  (Aside  to  him,  and  secretly  laughing) 
You  are  a  goat ! 

LADY  HURLEY.  You  don't  appear  to  be  ready 
for  us. 

WAVERTON.  (Leaning  against  R.  end  of  sofa. 
BEATRICE  is  L.  of  him,  with  her  arm  through  his) 
No. 

LADY  HURLEY,  (c.)  Then  get  ready.  I  advise 
a  thick  overcvoat.  It's  cold.  (Slight  pause)  Be 
good  enough  to  hurry,  Peter.  Lady  Tollington  al- 
ways lunches  early  in  the  country. 

WAVERTON.  The  fact  is,  Amelia,  I  rang  you  up 
to  tell  you  that  matters  of  extreme  importance  had 
arisen,  which  make  it  quite  impossible  for  me  to 
motor  down  to  Hertfordshire  with  you  to-day.  I'm 
sorry. 

BEATRICE.  (With  a  cheerfulness  which  is  in- 
tended for  LADY  HURLEY,)  Well,  that's  very  simple. 
We  must  go  without  you. 

LADY  HURLEY.  It  doesn't  occur  to  me  as  being 
so  very  simple. 

BEATRICE.    Why,  Aunt  Amelia? 

LADY  HURLEY.  (With  emphasis)  The  appoint- 
ment was  made  yesterday  morning  and  Peter  was 
reminded  of  it  by  both  of  us  after  dinner  last  night. 

BEATRICE.  But  he  says  that  important  matters 
have  arisen  since. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Really,  Beatrice,  you  must  for- 
give me,  but  this  is  a  family  affair,  and  as  you're 
not  yet  a  full  member 


52  PASSERS-BY 

BEATRICE.  Of  the  family!  No,  not  yet,  Aunt 
Amelia ! 

WAVERTON.  (With  gentle  irony)  When  you  are, 
my  dear,  you  will  understand  that  no  incident  may 
be  permitted  to  pass  unadorned  by  its  little  scene. 
( BEATRICE  smiles  up  at  him) 

LADY  HURLEY.  My  dear  Peter,  no  rudeness  or 
sarcasm  will  alter  the  fact  that  you  have  played  fast 
and  loose  with  an  engagement  with  two  ladies. 
Perhaps,  however,  you  have  become  ultra-modern, 
and  the  fact  that  one  of  them  is  the  girl  you  are 
going  to  marry 

BEATRICE.  (Breaking  in)  I'm  quite  satisfied 
with  Peter's  explanation.  (A  smile  between  WAV- 
ERTON and  BEATRICE  ) 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Ignoring  the  interruption)  .  .  . 
and  the  other  your  half-sister  and  your  senior  by 
many  years  is  sufficient  excuse  in  your  eyes  for  con- 
duct which  I  am  compelled  to  regard  as  not  quite 
nice. 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  c.  quietly)  Have  you  quite 
finished,  Amelia? 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Crosses  c.)  I  may  be  old-fash- 
ioned, but  I  hate  anything  raffish. 

WAVERTON.     Have  you  quite  finished,  Amelia? 

LADY  HURLEY.  If  even  you  had  some  plausible 
excuse.  (Sits  chair  L.cJ 

WAVERTON.  My  dear  Amelia,  I'm  well  aware 
you  would  rather  miss  lunching  with  Lady  Tolling- 
ton  than  finding  out  what  keeps  me  in  town. 

LADY  HURLEY.    (Indignant)    Really,  Peter! 

WAVERTON.  (Sits  on  edge  of  table,  R.)  Oh, 
/  know —  (He  smiles)  So  here  goes.  I  had  visi- 
tors last  night. 

LADY  HURLEY.     Visitors  at  that  hour  ? 

WAVERTON.     Yes. 

BEATRICE.    After  you  telephoned  me  ? 

V/AVF.RTON.     Yes. 


PASSERS-BY  S3 

LADY  HURLEY.    Who  were  they  ? 

WAVERTON.    (Slowly)    Just  some  passers-by. 

BEATRICE.  (Sitting  R.  arm  of  sofa,  Lj  But  how 
exciting,  old  boy. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Gravely)  Peter,  I  must  warn 
you  against  eccentricity.  It  is  in  your  blood.  Your 
poor  mother  was  eccentric.  She  used  to  pick  up  the 
most  extraordinary  people,  much  to  the  horror  of 
papa  and  myself. 

WAVERTON.  Well,  Amelia,  she's  picking  up  ex- 
traordinary people  in  Heaven  now  and  so  peace  to 
her  dear  memory. 

BEATRICE.     What  was  your  bag  last  night,  Peter  ? 

WAVERTON.     A  statesman  and  an  economist. 

BEATRICE.  You  old  dear !  I  believe  you  are  pull- 
ing our  legs. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Beatrice,  you  horrify  me !  Any- 
thing more  wanting  in  delicacy 

WAVERTON.  (Interrupting)  The  economist  re- 
turned here  this  morning. 

BEATRICE.     Is  he  presentable  ? 

WAVERTON.  Not  at  the  moment.  I  believe  he  is 
in  his  bath.  (A  doubtful  look  passes  between  BEA- 
TRICE and  LADY  HURLEY,) 

BEATRICE.     Are  you  quite  well,  old  dear? 

WAVERTON.     Perfectly,  thanks. 

LADY  HURLEY.  If  you're  serious,  Peter,  you 
must  be  off  your  head. 

WAVERTON.  I'm  quite  serious  and  quite  sane, 
Amelia. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Are  the  persons  you  refer  to — 
gentlemen  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Rises  and  goes  up  c.  a  little)  Oh, 
Amelia !  who  shall  judge  a  gentleman  ?  They  have, 
however,  some  of  the  necessary  attributes. 

LADY  HURLEY.  I  suppose  we  are  to  assume  that 
the  business  which  detains  you  in  town  is  connected 
with  these  persons  ? 


54  PASSERS-BY 

BEATRICE.  I  have  it !  Peter's  going  into  politics. 
Clever  old  thing!  (She  rises  and  crosses  up 
to  WAVERTON,  and  then  both  go  up  to  win- 
dow, R.) 

LADY  HURLEY.  If  Peter  is  going  mad  he'd  bet- 
ter see  a  doctor.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he's  going 
into  politics,  he  has  my  approval.  Politics  is  no 
longer  essentially  the  career  for  a  gentleman,  but 
in  these  iconoclastic  times  when  class  is  arrayed 
against  class — (She  suddenly  sees  one  of  MARGAR- 
ET'S gloves  on  writing-table)  when  class — is  ar- 
rayed— ( She  picks  up  the  glove  and  gases  at  it  for 
a  moment  unseen  by  the  others)  against  class — 
(Slight  pause)  Beatrice,  would  you  be  good  enough 
to  wait  for  me  in  the  motor  ? 

BEATRICE.  (Crosses  down  c.,  surprised)  Cer- 
tainly, Aunt  Amelia,  if  you  have  something  confi- 
dential to  say  to  Peter. 

LADY  HURLEY.  I  have.  (WAVERTON,  who  also 
looks  surprised,  walks  down  R.  to  door,  R.IE.) 

BEATRICE.  (Goes  R.  aside  to  WAVERTON )  You're 
up  to  some  mischief,  old  dear.  What  is  it? 

WAVERTON.  (The  same)  For  Heaven's  sake,  get 
her  away. 

BEATRICE.  (Aloud)  Can't  you  postpone  your 
talk  with  Peter,  Aunt  Amelia  ?  We  shall  be  so  late 
for  luncheon. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Firmly)  Be  good  enough  to 
wait  for  me  in  the  motor.  (WAVERTON  and  BEA- 
TRICE shrug  shoulders,  glance  at  each  other,  and 
exeunt,  R.IE.  The  noise  of  outer  door  closing  is 
heard.  Slight  pause,  while  LADY  HURLEY  looks  at 
the  glove  with  some  disgust,  then  drops  it  on  writ- 
ing-table. Enter  WAVERTON,  R.IE.  ;  a  slight  pause 
while  they  look  at  each  other) 

WAVERTON.     Well,  Amelia! 

LADY  HURLEY.  (In  the  manner  of  one  who  bears 
a  burden  with  resignation)  Peter,  I  was  unfor- 


PASSERS-BY  55 

tunately  abroad  when  our  father  fell  in  love  with 
and  married  your  mother. 

WAVERTON.  (Up  R.C.)  So  you  have  frequently 
given  me  to  understand,  Amelia. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Although  she  had  many  amiable 
qualities,  the  match  was  one  which 

WAVERTON.  (Firmly)  You  will  kindly  leave  my 
mother  out  of  the  question,  Amelia.  Her  loss  was 
the  tragedy  of  my  childhood. 

LADY  HURLEY.  I  hope  you  remember  that  I  did 
my  best  to  replace  her,  Peter. 

WAVERTON.  I  remember  everything,  Amelia. 
But  I'm  afraid  that  this  morning  I  have  no  time  to 
indulge  in  reminiscences,  however  agreeable. 

LADY  HURLEY.  If  at  times  I  have  suffered  dis- 
appointment in  you  I  have  done  my  best  to  con- 
ceal it. 

WAVERTON.    No  doubt !    No  doubt ! 

LADY  HURLEY.  I've  always  had  your  best  in- 
terests at  heart,  and  when  I  got  you  engaged  to 
Beatrice  Dainton  I  did  so  in  the  belief ( WAV- 
ERTON looks  up  while  she  continues  significantly) 
that  whatever  errors  you  had  committed  in  the 
past (Their  eyes  meet,  there  is  a  slight  pause) 

WAVERTON.  (To  her)  What  the  devil  are  you 
driving  at?  (He  goes  to  her) 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Rises,  picking  up  the  glove  with 
the  tips  of  her  finger  and  thumb,  rising  and  hold- 
ing  it  in  front  of  him)  What  is  this  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Calmly,  after  a  slight  pause)  It 
would  appear  to  be  a  glove. 

LADY  HURLEY.     A  woman's  glove. 

WAVERTON.     Perhaps  a  gentlewoman's  glove. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Obviously  it's  the  glove  of  a  very 
common  woman. 

WAVERTON.  Possibly  only  of  a  very  poor 
woman. 

LADY  HURLEY.     (Her  eyes  fixed  on  his  as  she 


56  PASSERS-BY 

lets  the  glove  drop  from  her  fingers  on  to  the  desk) 
You  mean  an  economist. 

WAVERTON.  (Frankly  bursts  out  laughing)  Oh, 
Amelia!  Oh,  dear  Amelia!  Life  is  full  of  com- 
pensations. In  the  old  days — you'll  hardly  believe 
it — I  used  to  be  rather  frightened  of  you,  but  in 
these  latter  days  when  I  understand  you  ever  so 
much  better  you  afford  me  endless  amusement. 

LADY  HURLEY.  I  suppose  I  must  be  very  dull, 
but (Stiffly) 

WAVERTON.  Admit  that,  although  your  comely 
and  well-clothed  body  is  here  present,  your  imagi- 
nation for  some  minutes  has  been  in  the  bath-room. 
(He  walks  towards  door  R.2E .)  Come  with  me,  my 
dear  Amelia,  come  with  me. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Really,  Peter,  I  must  ask  you  to 
behave  with  ordinary  decency.  If  you  give  me  your 
word  that  the  owner  of  this  glove  is  not  in  your 
apartments 

WAVERTON.  I  give  it  gladly,  Amelia — only  be- 
cause I  am  rather  pressed  for  time  this  morning. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Quickly)  Then  you  know  the 
owner?  (The  door  bell  is  heard.  WAVERTON  starts 
a  little  anxiously.  He  is  up  R.C.) 

WAVERTON.     Oh,  yes. 

LADY  HURLEY.  But — but  you  decline  to  tell  me 
who  it  is? 

WAVERTON.  Absolutely,  Amelia.  (Enter  PINE. 
WAVERTON  gestures  him,  warning  discretion) 

PINE.  May  I  speak  to  you,  sir  ?  (LADY  HURLEY 
goes  down  L.  WAVERTON  goes  to  PINE  behind  table, 
R.  They  whisper  and  WAVERTON  points  to  R.2E., 
indicating  the  room  beyond.  Exit  PINE  R.IE.J 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Buttoning  her  coat)  Very  well 
— my  duty  is  clear. 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  L.  to  writing-table)  If 
you  mean  your  duty  to  me,  Amelia,  I  beg  that  you 
will  neglect  it. 


PASSERS-BY  57 

LADY  HURLEY.  I  refer  to  my  duty  to  Beatrice — 
who  is  under  my  protection.  (Crosses  R.) 

WAVERTON.  (Taking  up  the  glove)  Ah,  yes— 
you  are  right.  You  will  tell  Bee  and  she  will  tell 
me,  and  I  may  or  may  not  tell  her  about  the  owner 
of  this  rather  pathetic  little  glove. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Who  has  gone  towards  door 
R.IE. — turning)  You  would  be  wiser  to  tell  me  who 
she  is. 

WAVERTON.  She  is  a  lady  for  whom  I  entertain 
the  highest  esteem.  (Calls)  Pine!  (Crosses  be- 
hind table,  R.  and  down  to  R.iEj 

PINE.    (In  the  distance  outside)    Yes,  sir? 

WAVERTON.     (In  a  conventional }  "society"  tone) 
Good-bye,  my  dear.    Awfully  sorry  I  couldn't  come. 
Hope  you'll   have   a   nice   day.      (Through   door) 
Pine,    go    down    with    her    ladyship.      Good-bye! 
(Exit  LADY  HURLEY,  R.IE.    WAVERTON  closes  door, 
hesitates  a  moment,  then  opens  door  again  and  looks 
out,  then  crosses  up  R.  to  door.    He  hesitates  again, 
then  comes  into  the  middle  of  the  room.     He  ap- 
pears rather  embarrassed.     He  smoothes  his  hair 
and  pulls  his  waistcoat  straight.     Then  he  walks 
to  the  door,  R.2E.  and  opens  it.    In  a  subdued  tone) 
Margaret !    (Slight  pause.    Enter  MARGARET.    She 
stands  calmly  at  her  full  length  in  the  doorway  for 
a  moment,  looking  rather  proudly  at  WAVERTON. 
WAVERTON  looks  first  at  her  and  then  beyond  her. 
Then  he  falls  back  two  paces.     MARGARET  reaches 
one  arm  behind  her  and  gently  and  slowly  pushes 
forward  LITTLE  PETER.    Enter  LITTLE  PETER.    He 
is  a  beautiful  child  of  between  five  and  six.    His  re- 
fined oval  face  is  surrounded  by  a  mass  of  curly 
blond  hair.     His  eyes  are  large  and  solemn.     He 
is  dressed  simply  in  inexpensive  materials,  but  in 
perfect  taste.    He  is  just  the  child  and  the  treasure 
of  his  mother.     WAVERTON  looks  at  LITTLE  PETER 
in  profound  admiration,  almost  in  awe.    His  voice 


58  PASSERS-BY 

trembles  a  little  as  he  says)  :  But — but — Margaret 
— he — he's  wonderful.  (He  stoops  and  gives  the 
boy  his  forefinger) 

MARGARET.  (A  slight  break  in  her  voice)  I 
thought  perhaps — you  would  think  so. 

WAVERTON.  (Stands  up  with  a  nervous,  pathetic 
smile)  Damn  it,  Margaret,  I — I'm  shy. 

MARGARET.  (Suddenly  putting  her  hand  to  her 
face  as  if  to  stop  herself  from  crying)  I'll  come 
back.  (  MARGARET  steps  back  quickly  and  exits 
R.2EV  closing  the  door  behind  her.  LITTLE  PETER 
looks  after  his  mother — then  at  WAVERTON ) 

WAVERTON.  Come  along,  little  man !  (He  gives 
the  child  his  hand  and  leads  him  to  the  writing- 
table.  Then  he  lifts  him  into  a  sitting  position  on 
the  table)  There!  (Slight  pause)  I'll  tell  you 
something,  old  chap — I  don't  remember  what  in- 
terests little  boys  of  five — what's  your  name? 

LITTLE  PETER.     (In  a  soft  voice)    Peter. 

WAVERTON.  Of  course  it  is.  I  knew  it  already. 
That  shows  what  a  great  big  silly  I  am.  My 
name's  Peter,  too.  Isn't  that  funny? 

LITTLE  PETER.     Yes.    (Slight  pause) 

WAVERTON.  And  yet  it's  not  so  very  funny,  Lit- 
tle Peter,  because — because — however!  Do  you 
play  with  other  little  boys? 

LITTLE  PETER.     No. 

WAVERTON.  Neither  did  I.  I  can  remember 
that  much.  That's  what  makes  us  both  so  shy. 
(He  looks  around  the  room,  and  his  eyes  light  on 
the  old  grandfather's  clock  which  stands  in  a  cor- 
ner) Know  anything  about  clocks?  (He  picks 
LITTLE  PETER  up  in  his  arms)  Here's  a  wonder- 
ful old  chap,  although  he  doesn't  often  take  it  into 
his  head  to  go.  (He  turns  the  hands  to  the  hour. 
The  clock  strikes.  LITTLE  PETER  looks  in  won- 
der, but  doesn't  smile)  Pretty  good,  eh? 

LITTLE  PETER.    Yes. 


PASSERS-BY  59 

WAVERTON.  (Looking  into  the  solemn  face  of 
the  child,  who  is  still  in  his  arms)  But  only  pretty 
good.  I  think  you're  right.  Now  I'm  going  to 
really  tell  you  something.  People  think  I  can't 
sing,  but  I  know  I  can.  (Puts  LITTLE  PETER  on 
the  ground,  takes  his  hand  and  sings  the  chorus  of 
Harry  Lander's  song,  "It's  just  like  being  at  Hame."  ) 
Do  you  like  that?  (LITTLE  PETER  nods  his  head. 
He  lifts  LITTLE  PETER  on  to  the  sofa  and  lays  a 
hand  on  his  curls.  The  child  still  wears  his  sol- 
emn look.  Suddenly  WAVERTON  walks  away,  his 
back  to  the  audience,  to  wipe  the  tears  from  his 
eyes.  Pause.  Then  he  speaks  in  a  changed  and 
cheerful  voice)  I  have  the  idea,  Little  Peter.  Pic- 
tures !  I  can  remember  that  too — I  always  loved 
pictures!  (He  gets  and  brings  to  the  sofa  a 
book  of  engravings.  He  kneels  by  the  side  of 
the  sofa  and  opens  the  book)  Do  you  like  pic- 
tures ? 

LITTLE  PETER.    Yes. 

WAVERTON.  Well,  now  we're  on  common 
ground.  (He  looks  cautiously  round  to  be  sure  the 
doors  are  shut,  and  then  for  the  first  time  kisses  his 
child — then  he  rises.  LITTLE  PETER  with  evident 
interest,  slowly  turns  over  the  pages.  WAVERTON 
goes  to  door  R.2E.  and  opens  it.  With  an  affectation 
of  impatience)  Margaret!  Margaret! 
MARGARET.  (Outside)  Yes! 

(Enter  MARGARET,  R.2E.J 

WAVERTON.  What  the  deuce  did  you  go  away 
for? 

MARGARET.  (Blankly)  I  don't  know.  (Then 
she  divines  his  mood  and  smiles.  She  looks  over  to 
the  child.  WAVERTON'S  eyes  follow  hers  and  there 
is  a  pause  for  a  moment  while  the  child  continues 
to  be  interested  in  the  pictures) 

WAVERTON.  (Up  c.)  He  loves  pictures — so  do  I. 
("MARGARET  smiles  at  him)  Look  here,  Margaret, 


60  PASSERS-BY 

you  and  I  have  got  to  have  a  serious  talk  some 
time. 

MARGARET.    (R.C.)    What  about? 

WAVERTON.  Well,  for  one  thing  I'm  not  going 
to  have  that  fellow — what's  his  beastly  name? — 
Henry 

MARGARET.     Robinson. 

WAVERTON.  Well,  whatever  it  is,  I'm  not  going 
to  have  him  interfering  in  the  bringing  up  of  my 
boy 

MARGARET.  Oh,  Peter !  (They  look  at  each  other 
for  a  moment)  Can't  you  trust  me?  (His  expres- 
sion softens.  He  takes  her  hand  and  pats  it  gently) 

WAVERTON.  Why  does  he  never  play  with  other 
little  bays? 

MARGARET.  The  boys  in  our  neighbourhood  are 
so  rough — perfect  little  devils. 

WAVERTON.  Boys  ought  to  be  perfect  little  dev- 
ils—I'm convinced  of  it.  What  did  Nighty  think 
of  him? 

MARGARET.  He  didn't  say.  There  was  no  op- 
portunity. (  WAVERTON  crosses  to  fireplace  and 
touches  the  bell.  MARGARET  comes  to  back  of 
sofa,  L.) 

WAVERTON.  We'll  have  him  in.  He  may  make 
the  child  smile.  (Enter  PINE,  R.2E.)  Is  Nighty 
there? 

PINE.     Yes,  sir,  he's  in  the  hall. 

WAVERTON.     Bring  him  here. 

PINE.     Yes,  sir. 

WAVERTON.     And,  Pine! 

PINE.     Yes,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  At  any  time  Mrs.  Summers'  little 
boy  is  here,  you'll  take  your  orders  from  him. 

PINE.  (Smiling  broadly)  Yes,  sir.  (Aside  to 
MARGARET,)  He's  a  perfect  beauty,  ma'am.  (Exit 
PINE; 

WAVERTON.     (Still  at  fireplace)     I  want  to  see 


PASSERS-BY  61 

Little  Peter  smile.    (PiNE  goes  to  door  R.IE.,  opens 
it  and  motions  to  NIGHTY,  who  is  outside) 

MARGARET.  (With  spirit)  He  doesn't  smile  un- 
necessarily. He's  a  superior  child.  ( She  bends  over 
to  LITTLE  PETER  lovingly) 

WAVERTON.  All  right,  my  dear,  you  needn't  be 
cross. 

MARGARET.    Don't  be  absurd. 

(Enter  NIGHTY,  R.IE.) 

WAVERTON.  Well,  Nighty,  what  do  you  think 
of  Mrs.  Summers'  little  boy  ?  (PiNE  lingers,  deeply 
interested  in  the  child) 

NIGHTY.  (By  table  R.)  The  word  is  "Angel," 
guv'nor — or,  more  correctly,  "Cherub."  (He  beams. 
They  are  all  more  or  less  beaming) 

WAVERTON.  Tell  me,  Nighty,  your  own  little 
boys  at  that  age — were  they  very  quiet? 

NIGHTY.  Quiet!  They  were  a  pack  of  little 
devils,  guv'nor. 

WAVERTON.     You  hear  that,  Margaret? 

MARGARET.  (In  a  musical  voice  as  she  strokes 
LITTLE  PETER'S  hair)  There  are  boys — and  boys. 

NIGHTY.  Quite  right,  ma'am,  and  the  best  of 'em 
are  quiet  before  grown-ups.  Perhaps  it's  because 
they  don't  trust  'em.  *  (Enter  BURNS,  R.2E.  His 
hair  has  been  cut,  and  he  has  been  shaved  and,  in 
PINE'S  clothes — a  jacket  suit — he  looks  quite  re- 
spectable. He  is,  however,  extremely  indignant. 
WAVERTON  is  the  first  to  see  him) 

WAVERTON.  Why,  this  can't  be  my  friend 
Burns!  (They  all  look  at  BURNS) 

BURNS.  (In  a  tone  of  grave  complaint)  Yes, 
mister.  That  gent,  there  (pointing  to  PINE),  'e  puts 
the  barber  on  me.  A  liberty,  I  calls  it.  ( LITTLE 
PETER  rises  and  leans  up  against  end  of(  writing- 
table) 

NIGHTY.     Why,  you  look  a  regular  toff,  Burns. 

V /.T:GV:.ET.     It's  a  wonderful  change. 


62  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.  (Agitated)  I  don't  'old  with  changes. 
I'm  fair  upset — without  a  "by-your-leave"  or 
nothin'.  It's  a  liberty.  (Raises  his  voice  angrily) 
Why,  it  ain't  me — it  ain't  like  me !  It's  a  houtrage 

— it's  a (He  is  face  to  face  with  LITTLE 

PETER.  His  expression  slowly  softens  as  he  gazes 
at  the  child,  who  is  looking  up  at  him.  The  others 
watch  in  deep  interest.  Simultaneously  the  faces 
of  BURNS  and  LITTLE  PETER  break  into  smiles) 

BURNS.  (Bending  towards  LITTLE  PETER,) 
Hello,  boy ! 

LITTLE  PETER.     Hello,  man! 

NIGHTY.  (Softly)  Well,  what  do  you  make  of 
that? 

MARGARET.  (Proudly,  to  WAVERTONJ  My  boy 
knows  when  to  smile.  (  LITTLE  PETER  and  BURNS 
shake  hands.  Picture) 

CURTAIN 


ACT  III 

SCENE:  The  same  as  Acts  I  and  II.  It  is  about 
five  o'clock  one  afternoon  three  weeks  after  the 
events  of  Act  II.  The  day  has  been  very  fine 
and  the  evening  approaches  in  a  golden  haze. 
The  window  R.  is  open,  and  the  sound  of  traffic 
is  heard  in  distance.  On  the  curtain  rising 
BURNS  is  discovered.  He  is  wearing  the  clothes 
into  which  he  has  changed  in  Act  II,  partially 
covered  by  a  long  apron.  He  is  on  the  sofa 
looking  through  a  picture  book,  just  as  LITTLE 
PETER  was  in  Act  II.  A  patent  carpet-sweeper 
is  leaning  up  against  chair,  L.C.  Suddenly 
BURNS  thinks  he  hears  some  one  coming.  He 
starts  guiltily  and  seizing  the  handle  of  the 
sweeper  affects  to  work.  Then  realising  that 
it  was  a  false  alarm,  he  drops  the  broom  handle 
and  goes  to  the  window  up  R.  On  the  way  he 
picks  up  a  pin) 

BURNS.  (Soliloquising  with  satisfaction)  A 
black-head!  (He  puts  it  in  his  waistcoat.  He  is 
absorbed  in  gazing  out  of  the  window.  After  a  few 
moments'  interval  the  door  L.  of  the  room  opens  si- 
lently and  PINE  appears.  He  comes  c.  and  takes 
hold  of  sweeper-handle  which  is  leaning  against 
piano.  Enter  LITTLE  PETER  unseen  by  the  others. 
He  lies  on  sofa  and  conceals  himself  with  cushions) 

PINE.  I  thought  so!  (BURNS  starts  and  turns, 
shuts  window  and  comes  down  to  R.  of  piano.  Noise 
of  traffic  ceases)  This  morning  I  put  you  on  to  this 
carpet — did  you  do  it? — No.  This  afternoon  I  put 
you  back  on  it — are  you  doing  it? — No.  You're 
loafing.  That's  what  you're  doing — loafing. 

BURNS.    (Sulkily)    Bother! 

PINE.    What  were  you  doing  at  that  window  ? 
63 


64  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.  Smelling  the  dust — I  like  it.  (Takes 
broom-handle  from  PINE) 

PINE.  Your  sort  would.  (BURNS  moves  the 
sweeper  languidly  over  the  carpet)  Why  don't  you 
put  your  back  into  it  ? 

BURNS.     Me  back's  weak. 

PINE.    That's  only  a  fiction. 

BURNS.     What's  a  fiction? 

PINE.     Polite  for  falsehood. 

BURNS.     My!    Wish  I  was  eddicated. 

PINE.  (Sitting  on  chair  L.cJ  I've  been  looking 
at  those  knives  you've  supposed  to  have  cleaned. 
I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  go  over  them  again. 

BURNS.    (R.cJ    Sha'n't. 

PINE.  You  mustn't  speak  to  me  like  that.  I 
don't  want  to  have  to  complain  to  Mr.  Waverton 
about  you. 

BURNS.    Oh,  don't  yer! 

PINE.  I'd  rather  he  remained  under  the  illusion 
that  there's  some  manhood  in  you. 

BURNS.    (Turns  on  PINE,)    'E's  on  my  side,  'e  is. 

PINE.  Oh,  he's  made  a  case  of  you — being  a  bit 
balmy.  Personally  I  should  have  left  you  where 
you  was  best  fitted. 

BURNS.     It  was  you  as  fetched  me  in. 

PINE.  By  his  orders.  I  only  drew  his  attention 
to  you  because  you  were  like  a  picture  in  a  comic 
paper. 

BURNS.  (With  an  absurd  outburst  of  rage)  Oo 
put  the  barber  on  me — that's  what  I  arst  ? 

PINE.     I  did — by  his  orders. 

BURNS.    (Much  impressed)    Tain't  true. 

PINE.  It's  the  golden  gospel.  Between  us  we 
made  you  look  something  like  a  human  being.  But 
are  you  a  human  being,  Burns?  The  reply  is,  in 
the  language  of  poetry,  "Yes,  I  don't  think,  don't 
think,  don't  think !"  You  don't  know  poetry, 
Burns  ?  (Rises) 


PASSERS-BY  65 

BURNS.  (In  mild  anger)  I'm  straightforward — 
that's  wot  I  am. 

PINE.  Poor  chap!  'Opeless !  Well,  we  can  only 
go  on  doing  our  little  best. 

BURNS.     You'll  miss  me  when  I'm  gorne. 

PINE.  (Going  to  door  L.)  Oh,  yes,  I'll  miss  you. 
But  you  won't  go,  Burns — your  sort  never  goes. 
(Exit  PINE  L.  BURNS  throws  a  malevolent  look 
after  him,  then  continues  to  feebly  push  the  sweeper. 
After  a  moment's  pause  LITTLE  PETER  comes  from 
his  concealment,  and  taking  hold  of  the  tower  part 
of  the  sweeper-handle,  assists  BURNS  to  shove  it. 
BURNS  laughs  and  discontinues  work  himself, 
leaving  the  sweeper  in  possession  of  LITTLE 
PETERJ 

BURNS.  That's  right — give  it  a  good  'ard  shove. 
("LITTLE  PETER  does  so.  BURNS  sits  L.  of  table  R., 
and  pointing  in  the  direction  in  which  PINE  has 
gone,  says  with  some  heat:)  'E  thinks  'e's  my  boss, 
but  he  ain't.  I  never  ?ad  no  boss — never  in  my  life. 
(LITTLE  PETER  continues  to  work.  Slight  pause. 
BURNS  beckons  to  him)  'Ere — little  'un — 'ere! 
(LITTLE  PETER  puts  down  the  sweeper-handle  and 
goes  to  BURNS  )  I  don't  like  'im,  and  'e  don't  like 
me— there !  'E's  bad. 

LITTLE  PETER.     Is  he? 

BURNS.  Yes.  It's  snap — snap — snap  with  him 
all  the  time.  There's  no  peace.  An'  the  liberties! 
'E  'ad  me  beard  took  off.  You  never  see  me  with  a 
beard. 

LITTLE  PETER.     Was  it  a  long  one? 

BURNS.  Middlin'.  Yes,  it's  snap — snap — all  work 
and  sharpness. 

LITTLE  PETER,    (c.)    Poor*  Mr.  Burns. 

BURNS.  "Burns !"  That  what  'e  calls  me.  Im- 
perdence!  Nobody  never  calls  me  nothing  before. 
Me  other  name's  Samuel. 

LITTLE  PETER.    Is  it? 


66  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.  Yes.  Call  me  Samuel.  (Pauses) 
Won't  yer  ?  I  wouldn't  let  no  one  else. 

LITTLE  PETER.     Samuel! 

BURNS.  That's  right. — 'Ere,  I'll  show  you  some- 
thin'.  Yer  won't  tell? 

LITTLE  PETER.     No. 

BURNS.  (In  great  confidence)  I  got  me  cap  back. 
(He  half  pulls  it  from  his  breast-pocket  and  puts  it 
back  again)  I've  'ad  it  years  and  years.  JE  took 
it  away  the  day  'e  put  the  barber  on  me,  but  I  creep 
an'  creep  in  the  night,  an'  I  foun'  it.  ( The  door  sud- 
denly opens.  Enter  PINE.  BURNS  rises  hastily. 
LITTLE  PETER  goes  down  L.) 

PINE.  (Crosses  down  c.  to  LITTLE  PETER.  With 
grave  indignation)  Master  Peter,  it's  not  beseem- 
ing that  you  should  talk  to  the  under  servants.  (He 
comes  down  and  takes  LITTLE  PETER'S  hand  and 
goes  R.)  I  have  to  take  you  for  a  nice  drive  in  a 
cab,  after  which  your  Ma  is  coming  to  take  you 
home.  That  poor  chap  isn't  a  fit  companion  for  a 
young  gentleman  like  you. 

BURNS,  (c.  Bitterly  to  LITTLE  PETER )  That's 
right — I'm  the  dirt  under  yer  feet. 

LITTLE  PETER.  (With  a  look  from  BURNS  to 
PINE)  I  like  him. 

PINE.  Young  gents'  tastes  is  very  himature. 
(LITTLE  PETER  nods  at  BURNS.  Exeunt  PINE  and 
LITTLE  PETER,  R.IE.  PINE  shuts  door  after  them) 

BURNS.  (Soliloquising.  Drops  sweeper)  My 
sort  never  goes!  (With  great  determination) 
Don't  it !  (BURNS  evidently  makes  up  his  mind  to 
a  course  of  action.  He  begins  by  taking  off  his 
apron  which  he  flings  under  piano — then  after  a 
longing  look  through  the  window  he  goes  softly 
towards  the  door.  The  door  R.  at  that  moment 
opens  and  LITTLE  PETER  appears,  dressed  to  go  out) 

LITTLE  PETER.  (Shuts  door  and  comes  to  R.  of 
table  R.  In  a  guarded  voice)  Good-bye,  SamueJ. 


PASSERS-BY  67 

BURNS.  (Down  L.C.  In  the  same  tone  and  beck- 
oning with  his  hand)  'Ere !  ("LITTLE  PETER,  after 
a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  goes  to  BURNS,)  Do  you 
like  rabbits? 

LITTLE  PETER,     (n.c.)    Yes. 

BURNS.  I  know  where  there's  'undreds.  You 
make  a  loop  with  a  bit  of  string  an'  sometimes  you 
can  catch  'em ;  then  you  pick  'em  up  by  the  ears, 
never  by  the  feet,  always  by  the  ears.  String's  wot 
yer  want.  I  got  heaps.  (He  takes  a  collection  of 
string  out  of  his  pocket  and  shows  LITTLE  PETER,) 
See!  (Pause)  It  ain't  far.  Will  you  come? 

LITTLE  PETER.     Yes. 

BURNS.     There'll  be  a  moon  to-night. 

PINE.    (Outside)    Master  Peter!    Master  Peter! 

LITTLE  PETER.  Ssh !  ( LITTLE  PETER  gets  quick- 
ly under  piano  and  beckons  to  BURNS,  who  follows 
him) 

(Enter  PINE  R.isJ 

PINE.     Come  along,  Master  Peter.    (Pause.    He 

looks  round)    Now,  where  the (He  raises  his 

voice)  Master  Peter !  Master  Peter !  (Exit  PINE 
L.  BURNS  and  LITTLE  PETER  scurry  lightly  across 
to  principal  door  R.IEV  which  is  open.  LITTLE 
PETER  exits.  There  BURNS  stops  and  turns  round 
for  a  moment) 

BURNS.  (Looking  towards  door  L.J  "My  sort 
never  goes!"  Yah!  (Exit  BURNS ) 

PINE.  (Outside)  Master  Peter!  (Enter  PINE 
L.J  I  'ate  those  silly  games.  (He  looks  round  the 
room  at  the  possible  hiding-places,  then  goes  back 
to  the  door  L.  Raises  his  voice)  I  suppose  you're 
hiding  behind  that  sofa!  If  you  think  I'm  going 
to  duck  about  and  make  bags  of  my  trousers  you're 
mistaken.  (Slight  pause)  I  don't  want  to  be  hard 
on  you,  Burns,  but  I'll  have  to  report  you  for  this ! 
(Suddenly  he  notices  the  time  by  the  clock)  Good 
Lord!  ten  to  five!  (He  hastily  puts  the  patent 


68  PASSERS-BY 

sweeper  outside  the  door  R.2E.  and  does  one  or  two 
little  things  to  straighten  the  room.  Then  he  goes 
back  to  door  L.J  Burns,  have  done  with  this 

NIGHTY.    (Outside  R.)    Mr.  Pine!    Mr.  Pine! 

PINE.  (Starting  nervously)  Hello !  (Raises  his 
voice)  Is  that  you,  Nighty? 

NIGHTY.  (Outside)  Yes.  (Enter  NIGHTY  R.IE.,) 
What  about  this  drive? 

PINE.  (On  whom  a  fear  is  evidently  growing 
up,  L.c.J  Who  let  you  in?  Cook? 

NIGHTY.     No,  I  walked  in.    The  door  was  open. 

PINE.     Open  ? 

NIGHTY.    Yes. 

PINE.     Who  opened  it? 

NIGHTY.  (Down  R.J  Well  now,  Mr.  Pine,  'ow 
should  I  know?  I  suppose  you  left  it  open  last 
time  you  came  in. 

PINE.  (After  a  slight  pause)  Look  here,  Nighty, 
that  Burns — damn  him ! — I  wish  he'd  never  come 
here — him  and  the  boy  think  they're  having  a  game 
with  me — hiding — silly  rot  I  call  it. 

NIGHTY.  Go  on,  they're  only  children,  both  of 
'em. 

PINE.  You  have  a  look  round  these  rooms  while 
I  look  at  the  back.  Try  behind  the  sofa  in  there. 
(Pointing  to  door  L,.) 

NIGHTY.  Right  you  are!  (Exit  PINE  quickly 
R.2E.  A  broad  smile  steals  over  NIGHTY'S  face,  he 
makes  a  search  of  the  room)  Come  along,  Master 
Peter.  It's  only  old  Nighty!  (Pause.  Then  he 
exits  L.  softly  through  door,  tiptoeing,  as  if  playing 
with  children.  Then  there  is  a  slight  pause.  Re- 
enter  NIGHTY,  looking  puzzled  and  grave.  He  looks 
under  piano  and  finds  BURNS'  apron.  Enter  PINE 
by  door,  R.2E.  He  is  much  excited  and  alarmed) 

NIGHTY.     They're  not  here. 

PINE.  And  they're  not  out  there.  Not  a  sign  of 
them. 


PASSERS-BY  69 

NIGHTY.  (Handing  him  the  apron)  This  was 
under  the  piano. 

PINE.  (Deeply  agitated  R.cJ  My  God,  Nighty, 
I'm  in  trouble. 

NIGHTY.  (L.C.)  Pull  yourself  together,  Mr.  Pine. 

PINE.  I  tell  you  it's  ruin  for  me.  That  cursed 
loafer's  gone  off  with  the  child.  They  were  here 
one  moment,  and  the  next  they  was  gone  as  if  the 
earth  had  swallowed  them!  I  always  had  an  in- 
stinct about  that  cockroach — and  my  instincts 

NIGHTY.  (Firmly)  Never  mind  your  instincts, 
Mr.  Pine — the  business  is  to  find  'em.  They  can't 
have  gone  far. 

PINE.  You're  right,  and,  by  God,  I'll  break  every 

bone (The  door  bell  is  heard  to  ring)  That's 

the  mother — a  thousand  to  one. 

NIGHTY.     Or  the  guv'nor. 

PINE.  No.  He'd  use  his  latch-key.  If  she  was 
to  know  she'd  go  stark  staring  mad.  Not  a  word, 
you  understand.  Leave  it  to  me.  (Exit  PINE 
quickly,  R.IE.  NIGHTY,  grave  and  troubled,  stands 
waiting,  c.  After  a  slight  interval,  enter  MARGARET, 
followed  by  PINE,  R.IE.J 

PINE.  (By  door.  Hurriedly  and  with  affected 
cheerfulness)  It's  Nighty,  ma'am. 

MARGARET.  (Who  appears  in  good  spirits)  Good 
afternoon,  Nighty.  (Crosses  up  c.) 

NIGHTY.  (Affecting  cheerfulness,  works  round 
to  door  R.  behind  table)  Good  afternoon,  ma'am. 

PINE.  (Also  affecting  cheerfulness)  We're  just 
starting  to  take  the  young  gentleman  for  a  little 
drive,  ma'am. 

MARGARET.     Where  is  Master  Peter? 

PINE.  (Quickly)  He's  stepped  across  to  the  cab- 
rank  with  Burns,  ma'am.  ( NIGHTY  is  now  making 
for  the  door,  bowing  and  smiling  painfully)  Mr. 
Waverton's  motoring,  ma'am.  He'll  be  in  on  the 
stroke  of  five. 


70  PASSERS-BY 

MARGARET.  (Taking  off  her  jacket)  Don't  go 
too  far. 

NIGHTY.  No  ma'am.  Just  round  Constitution 
Hill  and  the  Palace.  (Exeunt  PINE  and  NIGHTY, 
closing  door,  R.IE.  MARGARET  folds  her  jacket  and 
takes  her  hat  off  and  lays  them  on  piano.  She  then 
takes  off  her  gloves.  She  is  humming  an  air.  She 
then  takes  a  piece  of  work  from  her  bag  and  makes 
herself  comfortable  in  chair  L.  of  table  R.  W AVER- 
TON'S  latch-key  is  heard  in  the  outer  door.  MAR- 
GARET looks  up  for  a  moment  and  then  back  at  her 
work.  Slight  pause.  WAVERTON  enters  R.IE.  in 
motoring  clothes) 

WAVERTON.     Hello,  Margaret! 

MARGARET.  Hello,  Peter !  (  WAVERTON  takes  off 
his  coat,  cap  and  gloves,  and  lays  them  on  chair  R., 
just  against  R.iE.J 

WAVERTON.  So  glad  you've  come.  I'm  not  late, 
am  I? 

MARGARET.     No.    I  was  a  little  early. 

WAVERTON.  I've  been  trying  my  motor  with  the 
new  light  body  on  it — she  goes  splendidly.  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  take  you  for  a  run  one  day. 

MARGARET.  I  should  be  afraid.  I've  never  been 
in  a  motor-car. 

WAVERTON.  How  old-fashioned  of  you.  It's 
time  you  began. 

MARGARET.     I'm  too  old  to  begin. 

WAVERTON.  (Walking  about  and  laughing) 
You!  Old!  (He  laughs)  You're  still  a  child. 
(As  he  passes  her  chair,  he  lightly  touches  her  shoul- 
der. NOTE  :  His  attraction  to  her  and  her  knowl- 
edge of  it  and  instinctive  defence  underlie  the  en- 
tire scene)  I'll  ring  for  Pine,  and  we'll  have  some 
tea. 

MARGARET.  I've  had  tea,  thank  you.  Pine  and 
Nighty  have  taken  Little  Peter  for  a  drive.  They've 
just  gone. 


PASSERS-BY  71 

WAVERTON.  Ah!  I  forgot!  I  left  instructions. 
(He  goes  up  L.  to  the  spirit  stand)  Well,  if  I'm  to 
have  tea  alone  I'll  take  it  with  soda-water.  (He 
mixes  himself  a  whisky  and  soda,  and  drinks)  Do 
you  know,  my  dear,  I  think  you  are  very  good  to 
me. 

MARGARET.     I  ?    How  ? 

WAVERTON.  First  of  all,  in  letting  me  see  the 
boy  twice  a  week. 

MARGARET.     I  thought  it  only  fair  to  you  both. 

WAVERTON.  Secondly,  in  coming  to  fetch  him 
away  yourself.  That  is  unearned  increment.  I 
hope  it  won't  be  taxed.  (He  lights  a  cigarette, 
crosses  c.  MARGARET  keeps  her  face  down  over 
her  work.  WAVERTON  looks  at  her,  but  gets  no 
sign  of  her  thoughts.  He  sits  at  his  writing-table. 
There  is  rather  a  long  pause) 

WAVERTON.     Margaret ! 

MARGARET.    Yes  ? 

WAVERTON.  I  want  you  to  make  it  three  times  a 
week. 

MARGARET.  Don't  ask  me,  Peter.  I'm  sure  it 
would  be  unwise.  As  it  is  I  have  misgivings. 

WAVERTON.     Misgivings? 

MARGARET.     I'm  not  sure  we  are  acting  fairly. 

WAVERTON.     To  whom? 

MARGARET.  Well — to — to  Miss  Dainton.  (Slight 
pause)  You  have  told  her  nothing. 

WAVERTON.  (Embarrassed)  No,  not  yet.  I 
called  for  her  in  the  motor  to-day — meaning  to  take 
her  for  a  drive  and  to  tell  her.  I  think  I  was  glad 
she  was  out.  I  suppose  she  ought  to  know.  But 
it's  difficult — she's  only  a  girl. 

MARGARET.  (Slowly)  She  must  be  told  the 
truth,  Peter — otherwise  I  can't 

WAVERTON.  (Hastily)  You  are  perfectly  right, 
my  dear.  I  shall  tell  her  to-morrow.  (He  rises 
and  walks  a  little  down  L.)  Fortunately  Beatrice 


72  PASSERS-BY 

has  the  keenest  sympathies.  She's  just  all  good- 
ness. (Coming  to  her)  What  work's  that  you're 
doing? 

MARGARET.     Knitting. 

WAVERTON.     What? 

MARGARET.  Socks.  (  WAVERTON  sits  on  top  of 
table  R.,  leaning  towards  her) 

WAVERTON.     Little  ones,  I  see. 

MARGARET.     For  little  feet. 

WAVERTON.     Must  you  always  work? 

MARGARET.  (Laughing  lightly)  Having  a  piece 
of  work  in  one's  hand  enables  one  to  concentrate. 

WAVERTON.     Oh,  really? 

MARGARET.  Some  people  say  that  if  you  keep 
your  feet  together  and  your  hands  together,  you 
complete  the  circuit.  I  don't  know  what  it 
means 

WAVERTON.     Nor  do  they. 

MARGARET.  Nor  do  they — but  I  fancy  this  has 
the,  same  kind  of  effect.  (Holding  up  her  work) 
You  understand  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Vaguely)  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  (He 
laughs  slightly.  She  laughs  slightly.  Then  they 
laugh  together  rather  more  than  the  occasion  would 
warrant)  I  told  you  you  were  only  a  child. 

MARGARET.    (Returning  to  her  work)    And  you? 

WAVERTON.     I (He  takes  up  wool,  which 

MARGARET,  after  a  moment,  gently  takes  away  from 
him)  I  think  that  in  some  ways  of  late  I've  grown 
younger.  I  used  to  feel  too  old  for  my  age — now 
perhaps  I'm  too  young  for  my  age — all  on  account 
of  that  kid  of  ours.  Damme,  I  find  myself  think- 
ing all  the  time  of  cricket  and  football  and  the  games 
I  missed  as  a  boy  through  the  old  man  being  ass 
enough  to  decided  against  a  public  school.  But  I 
can  give  Little  Peter  swimming  and  shooting  and 
handling  a  horse  or  boat  with  the  best  of  'em. 
don't  mind  telling  you,  my  dear,  that  even  now,  I 


PASSERS-BY  73 

wouldn't  change  my  hands  on  a  horse  with 

However,  I  don't  want  to  boast.  (Rises  and  goes  c.) 

MARGARET.  You  forget  I  saw  you  win  the  point- 
to-point  race  at  Blairfield 

WAVERTON.  So  you  did.  So  you  did.  (Slight 
pause)  Do  you  know  that  little  chap  grows  on  one 
like  the  devil. 

MARGARET.    Does  he,  Peter? 

WAVERTON.  Yes.  Of  course  with  you  it's  dif- 
ferent. The  maternal  instinct  is  a  very  potent 
factor. 

MARGARET.  It  just  means  loving — loving  dread- 
fully. 

WAVERTON.  (Sits  arm  of  chair,  L.cJ  Exactly. 
Now  with  us  mere  men — common,  ordinary  mascu- 
line clay — the  affection  has  to  grow.  The  first 
feeling  is  one  of  embarrassment.  One  is  a  father! 
The  devil!  Awkward  responsibility.  What's  to 
be  done  about  it  ?  Then  one  finds  one  is  the  father 
of  a  kind  of  glory  like  Little  Peter — with  some  like- 
ness to  what  we  were  ourselves  in  our  obscure 
youth! — Aha — reproduction  of  Us.  (Tapping  his 
chest)  What  better  model  ?  Chip  of  the  old  block ! 
Our  vanity  is  tickled.  And  so  that's  what  it  comes 
to,  my  dear — the  paternal  feeling — all  vanity.  (He 
pulls  chair  towards  her,  and  sits.  She  laughs)  I 
may  be  wrong — but  I  think  Little  Peter  an  unusual 
child. 

MARGARET.  He  sometimes  says  wonderful 
things. 

WAVERTON.     He  always  looks  wonderful  things. 

MARGARET.  (In  a  hushed  tone)  Perhaps — per- 
haps he  has  a  touch  of  genius. 

WAVERTON.     Perhaps.    It  would  be  a  nice  change 

in  a  Waverton (They  are  silent  for  a  moment, 

and  then  their  eyes  meet  and  they  smile)  Have  you 
his  picture  in  that  locket  ?  (  MARGARET'S  hand  goes 
quickly  to  her  neck — where  the  locket  is  just  under 


74  PASSERS-BY 

her  dress.  The  light  begins  very  gradually  to  get 
dimmer  as  the  sun  is  setting) 

MARGARET.     Yes. 

WAVERTON.     Mightn't  I  see  it? 

MARGARET.  (Rising,  shaking  her  dress  straight 
and  putting  down  her  work)  It's  only  an  old  one — 
taken  two  years  ago.  (Crosses  L.cJ 

WAVERTON.  Two  years  ago!  Little  Peter  at 
three!  Let  me  see  it.  (Rises  and  comes  to  R.  of 
her) 

MARGARET.  (Getting  away  from  him,  L.)  I — I 
think  I  have  another  copy — I'll  bring  it  to  you. 

WAVERTON.  But,  my  dear,  don't  you  under- 
stand? I  want  to  see  it  now.  Do  be  kind.  (He 
holds  out  his  hand  for  locket) 

MARGARET.  No !  No !  You  can't  see  it  now.  I 
don't  want  you  to. 

WAVERTON.  But  I  must.  (He  holds  her  while 
she  struggles)  Margaret,  don't  be  so  cruel.  I'm 
dying  to  see  it.  Don't  be  a  perfect  brute  to  me. 

MARGARET.     (Panting)    Peter — be  reasonable! 

WAVERTON.  No,  really — it  isn't  nice  of  you. 
(Suddenly,  by  a  desperate  effort,  MARGARET 
wrenches  herself  free  and  rushes  to  the  fireplace. 
He  follows  her)  Margaret ! 

MARGARET.  ( Her  voice  raised)  Do  you  want  me 
to  throw  it  in  the  fire  ?  (Her  hand  is  on  the  locket 
at  her  neck  and  she  is  breathing  heavily) 

WAVERTON.  (Flinging  himself  on  the  sofa)  No. 
(He  is  much  agitated.  There  is  a  pause  while  they 
both  make  an  effort  to  regain  self-control) 

MARGARET.  (Endeavouring  to  speak  evenly — L. 
end  of  sofa  L.)  Now  you  are  very  angry.  I'm 
sorry. 

WAVERTON.  I'm  not  angry.  You  were  quite 
within  your  rights.  (Raising  his  voice)  But  you 
can't  expect  me  to  be  particularly  exhilarated  by  the 
thought (He  breaks  off  abruptly) 


PASSERS-BY  75 

MARGARET.    Well.    By  what  thought? 

WAVERTON.  (Angry  and  vaguely  jealous)  What 
did  you  suppose  I  should  think?  (Slight  pause. 
He  sits  up)  Must  I  say  it?  (Slight  pause)  That's 
the  picture  of  another  man 

MARGARET.  (  Waving  her  trembling  hands)  Ssh ! 
Don't  say  that,  Peter! 

WAVERTON.  But  isn't  it  natural,  as  you  were  so 
damned  careful  not  to  let  me  see 

MARGARET.  (Quickly)  No — yes — I  suppose  so 
— but  you  don't  understand.  You'll  take  my  word 
though — I'm  sure  of  that,  and  I  give  it.  Your 
thought  was — was  wrong.  (Goes  up  L.,  round  top 
pf  writing-table) 

WAVERTON.  (A  little  ashamed)  I'm  glad  and 
— and  I'm  sorry.  Forgive  me.  (He  looks  down  at 
his  hands  nervously)  I'm  a  fool!  (She  is  R.  of 
writing-desk) 

MARGARET.  If  one  could  only  convince  oneself 
that  everything  is  all  right — and  just  the  way  it's 
got  to  be 

WAVERTON.  (Rising — goes  up  to  L.  writing-table) 
You  haven't  asked  me  why — why  I  bothered  so 
much  about  the  locket?  (He  is  longing  to  tell  her 
it  was  because  he  loves  her) 

MARGARET.  (Quickly)  No — I  don't  want  to 
know.  (She  does  know) 

WAVERTON.     Perhaps  you  guess. 

MARGARET.  (Almost  passionately)  No.  Can't 
you  see  ?  I  prefer  not  to.  (She  is  now  at  the  other 
side  of  the  desk  and  she  takes  up  the  picture  of 
BEATRICE,) 

WAVERTON.  (Behind  writing-table.  Almost  an- 
grily) You  may  put  that  down — I  forget  nothing. 
(He  takes  photo  from  her,  and  replaces  it  on 
table) 

MARGARET.  It  was  unintentional,  I  assure  you, 
Peter,  I  took  it  up  unconsciously.  I — I  am  very 


76  PASSERS-BY 

nervous.  Without  meaning  it,  I'm  afraid  we  hurt 
each  other.  (Goes  c.)  We  must  be  more — more 
conventional  or  else  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  come  here 
again. 

WAVERTON.  (Quickly  and  gently)  Don't  say 
that,  Margaret.  (She  goes  to  table  R.,  and  sits  and 
picks  up  her  work.  Crosses  R.  to  behind  table,  R.) 
It  was  all  my  fault.  I'm  a  perfect  brute.  (He  takes 
the  work  from  her)  And  don't  work  any  more. 
(Puts  work  on  piano)  The  light's  getting  too  bad. 
(Puts  chair  c.  up  to  writing-table,  and  sits  on  arm. 
Pause)  Play  something  for  me.  (They  both  now 
try  to  be  conventional) 

MARGARET.  I  play!  Oh,  my  dear  Peter,  my 
playing  days  are  over.  My  fingers  have  lost  what 
little  cunning  they  had. 

WAVERTON.     Don't  you  get  any  practice  now? 

MARGARET.  Very  little — and  that  only  on  my 
landlady's  piano.  Imagine  it — (rises) — a  tall,  se- 
vere repellent  affair  with  a  green  silk  front  and 
three  broken  notes. 

WAVERTON.  (Smiling)  I  can  see  it.  There  are 
probably  woolwork  flowers  on  the  top  under  a  glass 
case. 

MARGARET.     Yes,  and  a  stuffed  squirrel. 

WAVERTON.  (Going  to  piano)  Do  try  mine.  It's 
up  to  date,  though  possibly  out  of  tune. 

MARGARET.  (Going  to  piano)  But,  really,  Peter, 
it's  quite  out  of  the  question.  (She  sits) 

WAVERTON.  Anything.  (He  stands  against  the 
piano  looking  at  her.  MARGARET  begins  playing 
Schubert's  An  die  Musik"  very  softly.  Pause) 
That's  it.  Nothing  clings  so  desperately  to  the 
memory  as  music,  Margaret. 

MARGARET.  (Still  playing)  No.  (Another 
pause) 

WAVERTON.  That's  as  I  first  saw  you  at 
Amelia's.  It  was  after  dinner,  and  the  new  gover- 


PASSERS-BY  77 

ness  had  been  sent  for  to  play  to  us.  (Softly)  .  You 
were  the  new  governess. 

MARGARET.  (Softly)  Yes,  I  was  the  new  gover- 
ness. 

WAVERTON.    And  that  is  what  you  first  played. 

MARGARET.     Yes. 

WAVERTON.  (He  listens  for  a  few  moments  be- 
fore he  speaks  in  subdued  tones)  I  sat,  at  it  were, 
over  there — ^pointing  L.)  watching  you  from  be- 
hind the  evening  paper.  Dear  God !  how  shy  I  was ! 
I  was  afraid  you  would  catch  me  looking  at  you  and 
still  more  afraid  that  Amelia  would  catch  me.  She 
sat  there,  in  what  had  been  my  mother's  favourite 
chair,  and  in  complete  command  as  always  of  the 
situation.  Hurley  sprawled  in  an  arm-chair  asleep 
as  usual,  and  my  father  stood  over  at  the  mantel- 
piece secretly  disapproving  the  sentiment  of  the 
music.  It  was  a  typical  domestic  English  evening, 
but  in  that  quiet  room  love  was  at  work.  (Leaning 
on  the  piano)  Their  hostility  began  it.  The  very 
air  was  charged  with  it,  and  with  the  distrust  of 
youth.  Instinctively  we  formed  an  alliance  against 
the  common  enemy.  And  so  came  our  secret  meet- 
ings and  the  discovery  of  our  mutual  loneliness. 
And  then  Margaret — then 

MARGARET.  (Ceasing  to  play,  rising  in  much 
agitation)  You  mustn't  go  on.  I  can't  listen. 
It  isn't  right.  I  must  go — you  must  send  the 
child 

WAVERTON.  (Determined)  Wait — I've  got  to 
say  this.  What  a  man  has  lost  through  no  fault  of 
his  own  still  belongs  to  him  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 
And  it  was  through  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  lost 
you,  Margaret.  All  the  luck  was  against  me,  but  I 
want  you  to  know  that  I  wouldn't  have  given  you 
up — no,  Margaret — by  God  I  couldn't!  (He  is 
close  to  her,  and  appears  about  to  take  her  in  his 
arms.  Unheeded  by  MARGARET  and  WAVERTON  the 


78  PASSERS-BY 

outer  door  bell  has  sounded  and  at  this  moment  the 
noise  of  the  door  being  opened  is  heard) 

MARGARET.  (Listening)  The  child!  Thank 
God !  (LADY  HURLEY'S  voice  is  heard  outside) 

WAVERTON.    (Listening)    No !    It's  my  sister ! 

MARGARET.  (Alarmed)  Lady  Hurley !  ( She  is 
about  to  move) 

WAVERTON.  (Laying  his  hand  on  her  arm)  Don't 
you  move. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Outside)  It's  all  right,  my  good 
woman,  we  know  our  way. 

WAVERTON.  (Quickly  and  impressively)  Will 
you  trust  me,  Margaret? 

MARGARET.  (Up  R.C.  Looking  full  at  him) 
Yes.  (WAVERTON  comes  down  L.C.  Enter  MRS. 
PARKER,  R.IE.,  opening  the  door  for  LADY  HURLEY 
and  BEATRICE,  who  enter.  MRS.  PARKER  closes  the 
door  and  exits) 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Crosses  L.)  You  must  forgive 
this  invasion,  Peter,  but  you've  brought  it  on  your- 
self by  your  neglect. 

WAVERTON.  (Going  to  her)  Delighted  to  see 
you,  my  dear — and  you,  Bee.  (Crosses  c. — 
he  touches  BEATRICE  lightly  on  the  shoulder  as 
he  passes  her  to  the  electric  light  switches 
down  R.  The  evening  light  has  become  very 
dim) 

BEATRICE,  (c.)  Heartbroken,  old  dear,  to  have 
missed  you  when  you  called. 

WAVERTON.  What  we  all  need  is  more  light. 
(He  switches  on  the  light) 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Suddenly  seeing  MARGARET,) 
I'm  afraid  our  visit  is  ill-timed. 

WAVERTON.  (Going  quickly  up  to  window)  And 
drawn  curtains  give  a  sense  of  intimacy.  (Drawing 
the  curtains)  You  and  Miss  Summers  know  each 
other,  Amelia.  (LADY  HURLEY  at  writing-table  falls 
back  a  step  utterly  dumbfounded.  Introducing) 


PASSERS-BY  79 

Miss  Dainton — Miss  Summers!  (Both  the  girls 
bow) 

BEATRICE  (c.)  AND  MARGARET  (R.C.  Together, 
rather  faintly)  How  d'you  do? 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Aside  to  WAVERTON,  who  has 
come  down  L.  to  fireplace,  gasping  with  indigna- 
tion) How  dare  you ! 

WAVERTON.  (Quietly)  What's  the  matter, 
Amelia  ? 

LADY  HURLEY.  How  dare  you  introduce  such  a 
woman  to  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE.  (To  MARGARET )  I'm  glad  to  meet  a 
friend  of  Peter's,  Miss  Summers.  (They  shake 
hands.  Slight  pause) 

MARGARET.     Thank  you. 

LADY  HURLEY.  Beatrice,  you'll  be  good  enough 
to  wait  for  me  in  the  motor  below. 

BEATRICE.  (Up  c.)  Oh,  no,  Aunt  Amelia;  I 
don't  think  I  can  be  quite  good  enough  for  that. 
Not  to-day. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (By  sofa  L.  firmly)  Please  do 
as  I  wish. 

BEATRICE.  I'm  sorry  I  can't,  Aunt  Amelia.  I 
have  a  strange  feeling  that  my  days  of  waiting  in 
the  motor  below  have  gone  for  ever. 

LADY  HURLEY.  There  are  some  things  that 
young  girls  mustn't  know  about. 

BEATRICE.  Perhaps  they're  the  very  things  that 
young  girls  ought  to  know  about. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (With  quiet  indignation)  Very 
well.  You  bring  the  unpleasantness  upon  yourself. 
I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  that  this  person  left 
my  employment  in  circumstances 

WAVERTON.  (At  fireplace,  interposing  firmly) 
Wait,  Amelia,  I'm  sure  that  you'd  never  forgive 
yourself  if  you  said  something  offensive  about  a 
lady  who  is  my  guest. 

LADY  HURLEY.     I  don't  wish  to  be  unnecessarily 


8o  PASSERS-BY 

offensive,  Peter — but  if  Miss  Summers  is  to  re- 
main, I  must  go. 

WAVERTON.  I  should  regret  your  going,  my 
dear,  but  if  you  feel 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Quickly  interrupting)  Come, 
Beatrice (Moves  as  if  to  go) 

BEATRICE,  (c.)  I  can't,  Aunt  Amelia.  Peter 
evidently  wants  to  tell  me  something  that  I  ought 
to  know.  He'll  tell  me  the  truth.  I  trust  Peter. 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  R.  a  little)  Shall  I  take 
you  down,  Amelia  ?  (A  pause.  LADY  HURLEY  hesi- 
tates) 

MARGARET.     I  will  go.    (Comes  down  R.  a  little) 

WAVERTON.  (Goes  R.  below  table)  I  particularly 
wish  you  to  remain. 

BEATRICE.     So  do  I,  Miss  Summers. 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Coming  to  a  decision)  As  Bea- 
trice is  in  my  care  I  can't  leave  her  here  alone. 
There  would  appear  to  be  no  respect,  no  obedience, 
no  decency  left  in  the  world.  However,  I  have 
made  my  protest  against  what  I  consider  a  scan- 
dalous proceeding. 

WAVERTON.  (By  door  R.IE.)  I  have  made  a 
mental  note  of  your  protest,  my  dear,  and  I'm  glad 
you've  decided  to  stay.  I  must  beg  of  you,  how- 
ever, to  exercise  self-control.  I  think  that's  better 
done  sitting  than  standing.  ("LADY  HURLEY  re- 
moves her  furs  which  she  left  on  sofa.  Then  sits 
on  sofa.  Goes  up^  c.)  Beatrice!  (He  goes  to  her 
and  gives  her  chair,  L.C. ) 

BEATRICE.  (Laying  a  hand  for  a  moment  on  his 
arm)  You  dear  old  thing! 

WAVERTON.  (Pulls  chair  out  L.  of  table  R.)  Mar- 
garet, please  don't  stand.  ( MARGARET  sits  in  the 
chair,  R.c.  WAVERTON  position  standing  behind 
MARGARET )  I  had  no  intention  of  permanently  con- 
cealing from  you  my  friendship  with  Miss  Sum- 
mers, Bee.  I'm  sure  you  believe  that. 


PASSERS-BY  81 

BEATRICE.  I  always  believe  everything  you  say, 
Peter. 

WAVERTON.  We  became  friends  six  years  ago 
when  Miss  Summers  was  governess  in  my  sister's 
house.  It  is  idle  to  attempt  to  explain  what  forces 
drew  us  together — but  there  is  the  fact — we  became 
everything  to  each  other. 

BEATRICE.     (Slowly)    I  understand. 

WAVERTON.  On  Amelia  becoming  acquainted  in 
some  way  with  the  facts 

LADY  HURLEY.  Since  you  insist  on  knowing  the 
truth,  Beatrice — a  line  of  conduct  which  I  consider 
most  improper,  unsuitable  and  deplorable — I  dis- 
missed my  governess  on  discovering  she  was  carry- 
ing on  a  disgraceful  intrigue  in  my  house. 

WAVERTON.  My  sister  not  only  dismissed  Miss 
Summers,  but  in  her  zeal  deprived  me  of  all  op- 
portunity of  repairing  the  wrong  I  had  done  by 
telling  me  she  had  gone  abroad  to  another  engage- 
ment. 

LADY  HURLEY.     I  did  so  in  your  own  interests. 

WAVERTON.  I  am  sure  of  it,  Amelia.  Then  the 
postal  authorities  must  have  blundered,  for  two  let- 
ters which  Miss  Summers  wrote  me  never  reached 
me.  ("LADY  HURLEY  draws  herself  up  stiffly) 

MARGARET.  I  don't  think  it  is  necessary  to  go  on. 
I  have  never  thought  that  Lady  Hurley  could  have 
acted  in  any  other 

WAVERTON.  (Interrupting)  I  beg  of  you  to  let 
me  finish,  Margaret.  (Crosses  L.  to  behind  sofa) 
I  leave  it  to  your  wider  experience,  Amelia — do 
letters — properly  and  carefully  addressed  letters — 
very  often  go  astray  in  the  post  ?  (Pause) 

BEATRICE.     Where  were  the  letters  sent,  Peter? 

WAVERTON.  To  the  only  address  Miss  Summers 
knew  of — to  my  sister's  house.  (Another  pause. 
LADY  HURLEY  is  obstinately  silent) 

BEATRICE.     If  you  had  received  the  letters  you 


82  PASSERS-BY 

would  have— have  seen  Miss  Summers  again, 
Peter  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Slowly,  behind  writing-table)  Yes. 
I  think  she  knows  that  now — it  is  only  fair  to  me 
that  she  should  know  it — and  it  is  fair  to  you  that 
you  should  know  it. 

BEATRICE.    (Gently)    You  loved  her,  Peter,  dear. 

WAVERTON.     Yes. 

MARGARET.  (To  WAVERTON.  Sitting  R.C.J  I 
hope  you  will  explain  to  Miss  Dainton  that  our 
meeting  again  was  an  accident  and  that  my  presence 
here  implies  no  disloyalty  to  her. 

BEATRICE.     I'm  sure  of  that,  Miss  Summers. 

MARGARET.  Mr.  Waverton  told  me  immediately 
of  his  engagement  to  you. 

WAVERTON.  And  Miss  Summers  informed  me  of 
her  engagement — whose  name  I  have  unhappily  for- 
gotten. 

MARGARET.  (Rises)  Mr.  Henry  Robinson. 
(Goes  up  to  piano  and  gets  muff,  etc.) 

LADY  HURLEY.  (To  WAVERTON )  And  do  you 
consider  these  secret  meetings  in  your  rooms  quite 
fair  to  this  Mr.  Robinson  ? 

WAVERTON.  (Crosses  to  above  table,  Rj  How 
like  you,  Amelia — always  thinking  of  others ! 

BEATRICE.  Surely,  Aunt  Amelia,  this  is  Miss 
Summers'  affair — not  ours. 

LADY  HURLEY.  I  see  Miss  Summers  is  going. 
In  so  doing  she  wins  my  approval  for  the  first  time. 
(Rises  and  faces  MARGARET,)  I  should  like  her  to 
know  first  that  I  threw  her  two  letters  into  the  fire. 

BEATRICE.     Aunt  Amelia! 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Firmly)  I  have  no  regrets.  I 
saw  the  boy  to  whom  I  had  devoted  so  much  care 
falling  into  an  abyss.  I  did  what  I  thought  best  to 
save  him.  If  I  failed,  the  fault  isn't  mine. 

MARGARET.  (Goes  to  BEATRICE,  who  rises) 
Good-bye,  Miss  Dainton.  If  I  have  unconsciously 


PASSERS-BY  83 

caused  you  a  moment's  unhappiness,  I  am  sorry. 

BEATRICE.  (In  pained  tones)  Please  don't  speak 
of  it!  (Goes  up  L.C,  near  window.  Enter  PINE, 
R.IE.  NIGHTY  can  just  be  seen  in  the  doorway  be- 
hind him) 

PINE.  (Agitated)  Can  I  speak  to  you  a  moment, 
sir? 

WAVERTON.     Yes — what  is  it? 

MARGARET.  (Quickly)  Where's  the  boy? 
(PiNE  hesitates) 

WAVERTO  N  .     Well  ? 

PINE.  Disappeared,  sir — with  Burns.  (LADY 
HURLEY  rises) 

MARGARET.     My  God! 

WAVERTON.  (Firmly)  Can't  you  trust  me,  Mar- 
garet? 

MARGARET.  Yes.  (Covers  her  face  with  her 
hands  for  a  moment) 

PINE.  Nighty  and  I  have  been  searching  for 
them  for  over  an  hour.  (NIGHTY  steps  into  the 
doorway.  The  scene  to  be  taken  very  quickly  all 
through) 

WAVERTON.     Have  you  been  to  Scotland  Yard? 

NIGHTY.  No,  guv'nor — but  we  passed  the  word 
to  all  the  policemen  we  met. 

WAVERTON.  Round  to  the  garage,  Nighty,  and 
order  my  car.  You  will  come  with  me.  (Exit 
NIGHTY  R.IE.  Exit  PINEJ  It  only  means,  Mar- 
garet, that  the  Wanderer  has  returned  to  the  road 
and  has  taken  the  other  child  for  company.  Don't 
worry — I'll  bring  them  back.  (He  quickly  gathers 
his  coat,  hat,  and  gloves  from  chair  by  R.IE.,) 

LADY  HURLEY.  There  was  mention  of  a  boy. 
Whose  boy  ? 

MARGARET.     My  boy,  Lady  Hurley. 

WAVERTON.  (At  door,  R.IE.,  firmly)  And  mine, 
Amelia. 

LADY  HURLEY.     Peter!     (She  staggers  slightly. 


84  PASSERS-BY 

MARGARET  sits  chair  R.C.,  her  face  in  her  hands) 
BEATRICE.     Peter!     (She  is  gravely  distressed) 
WAVERTON.     Beatrice!       You     have     a     heart. 
(Points  to  MARGARET,  and  exits  R.IE.J 

LADY  HURLEY.  (Picks  up  furs)  Come,  Beatrice. 
("BEATRICE  first  looks  towards  door  that  WAVERTON 
has  gone  through,  then  at  MARGARET,  then  at  LADY 
HURLEY.  BEATRICE  with  great  determination  drops 
her  muff  on  chair  L.C.,  then  removes  her  hat  and 
drops  it  with  muff.  She  crosses  to  above  table  R, 
and  lays  her  hand  on  MARGARET'S  shoulder.  MAR- 
GARET looks  up  at  BEATRICE  and  breaks  down,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  her  arms  across  the  table.  BEATRICE 
sits  on  chair  above  the  table,  and  holds  MARGARET'S 
hand  in  deep  sympathy.  LADY  HURLEY,  strongly 
disapproving,  stands  by  writing-table) 

CURTAIN 


ACT  IV 

SCENE:  The  same  as  the  previous  Acts.  It  is  4.30 
in  the  morning.  The  room  is  softly  lighted  by 
electricity,  not  all  the  lamps  being  turned  on. 

On  the  curtain  rising  BEATRICE  is  discovered  asleep 
in  an  arm-chair  L.C.  MARGARET  is  looking  out 
of  window.  There  is  a  pause.  MARGARET 
walks  the  room.  Evidently  she  is  thinking  dis- 
tractedly of  her  lost  child.  She  stops  once  to 
look  down  at  the  sleeping  girl,  and  seeing  that 
the  rug  over  her  knees  has  slipped  down  she 
gently  readjusts  it.  She  then  crosses  to  fire- 
place and  puts  a  fresh  log  on  fire.  Hearing 
the  sound  of  a  passing  taxi,  she  hurries  to  the 
window  and  looks  out  through  the  curtains. 
As  it  doesn't  stop  she  comes  back  into  the  room 
with  a  disappointed  air  and  resumes  her  rest- 
less walk.  "Big  Ben"  is  heard  striking  4.30. 

BEATRICE.    (Stirring)    Hello — was  I  asleep? 

MARGARET.     I  hope  so. 

BEATRICE.  What  a  healthy  person  I  am.  (She 
rubs  her  eyes)  I  hadn't  the  remotest  intention  of 
going  to  sleep. 

MARGARET.  (R.C.J  You  sleep  easily  because  you 
are  young. 

BEATRICE.  Young?  I?  Oh  no,  Miss  Summers 
— I'm  grown  up  suddenly.  I  don't  think  any  one 
can  look  realities  in  the  face  and  remain  young. 

MARGARET.    Well,  because  you  are  good. 

BEATRICE.  (Laughs)  Good!  Why,  my  entire 
mental  life  has  been  punctuated  with  crime. 

MARGARET.  (At  table  R.,  with  a  slight  smile) 
Now  you're  making  fun  of  yourself. 

BEATRICE.  It's  true.  How  many  times  do  you 
fhink  I  have  murdered  Aunt  Amelia  ?  Even  Hurley 


86  PASSERS-BY 

and  the  children  haven't  escaped  me.  There  have 
been  occasions  when  I've  dabbled  in  the  blood  of  the 
entire  family.  What  time  is  it? 

MARGARET.     Half-past  four. 

BEATRICE.  Half-past  four!  (Rises  and  crosses 
to  MARGARET,)  And  you  have  been  walking  about 
and  wearing  yourself  out  while  I've  been  resting. 
I  feel  ashamed.  Do  let  me  tuck  you  up  in  this  nice 
chair  and  I'll  keep  watch  for  the  motor. 

MARGARET.  Thank  you — you  are  very  sweet — but 
I  feel  I  couldn't  rest — I  don't  seem  to  be  able  even  to 
sit  still.  (Crosses  to  fireplace)  I — I  want  my  child. 

BEATRICE.     You  have  no  faith,    (c.) 

MARGARET.     Yes,  yes,  I  have — but  I  am  a  mother. 

BEATRICE.     It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  a  mother. 

MARGARET.  (By  fireplace)  Yes,  it's  wonderful 
— and  beautiful;  but  I  suppose  it's  like  everything 
else  in  life — one  pays  for  the  joy  with  the  pain. 

BEATRICE.    (R.  end  of  sofa  L. )    Miss  Summers ! 

MARGARET.     (Softly)    Yes. 

BEATRICE.     I  insist  on  your  sitting  down. 

MARGARET.    (Hesitating)    I — I 

BEATRICE.  (In  a  tone  of  forced  command)  Come 
here!  (MARGARET  goes  to  her)  Sit  there!  (Indi- 
cating R.  end  of  sofa.  MARGARET  smiles  and  obeys. 
BEATRICE  arranges  a  cushion  behind  her)  There! 
(Pulls  footstool  out  from  beneath  sofa  and  places 
it  for  MARGARET )  Put  your  feet  on  that.  ("MAR- 
GARET does  so)  Now  fold  your  hands  and  close 
your  eyes.  ( MARGARET  does  so.  Slight  pause. 
Suddenly  two  tears  roll  down  MARGARET'S  cheeks, 
which  BEATRICE  wipes  away  with  her  hand)  No — 
you  mustn't. 

MARGARET.     I  won't — I  promise.     It's  only 

BEATRICE.  Ssh!  (Lays  a  hand  on  MARGARET'S 
arm.  Slight  pause) 

MARGARET.  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  let  you  stay — 
but 


PASSERS-BY  87 

BEATRICE.  (Sits  L.  arm  of  sofa)  But  you  can't 
get  rid  of  me.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  stand  by 
you,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  until  Peter  brings 
your  boy  back. 

MARGARET.  Lady  Hurley  rang  up  again  half  an 
hour  ago. 

BEATRICE.    What  did  the  darling  old  thing  say? 

MARGARET.  I  began  to  tell  her  you  were  asleep, 
but  she  rang  off  directly  she  heard  my  voice. 

BEATRICE.     Cat ! 

MARGARET.    At  least  she's  a  consistent  cat. 

BEATRICE  Oh,  yes — consistent  to  the  death. 
With  all  her  faults  she's  a  tremendous  mother — you 
know — one  of  the  aggressive  ones.  She'd  mother 
the  entire  human  race  if  she  could,  and  every  one 
would  have  a  beautiful  time — I  don't  think!  I'll 
bet  anything  she's  dying  to  know  if  the  child  is 
found.  But  do  you  think  she'd  ask  you?  Not  for 
an  empire ! 

MARGARET.     Isn't  that  amazing? 

BEATRICE.     To  me  it's  only  Aunt  Amelia. 

(Enter  PINE  R.2E.    Cross  to  above  table  L.) 

PINE.     Is  there  anything  I  can  get  you,  miss  ? 

BEATRICE.  No,  thank  you.  (As  an  excuse  for 
lingering  PINE  folds  the  rug  that  is  lying  on  the 
arm-chair,  then  lays  rug  over  back  of  chair  L.C.) 

PINE.  I  thought  perhaps,  miss,  you  would  like 
some  coffee. 

BEATRICE.  (Her  hand  on  MARGARET'S  shoulder) 
Would  you?  (MARGARET  shakes  her  head.  NOTE: 
During  all  this  part  of  the  Act  MARGARET  is  obvi- 
ously exercising  great  self -repression)  No,  thank 
you,  Pine.  We  shall  not  require  anything  till  Mr. 
Waverton  returns. 

PINE.  Excuse  me,  miss,  but  there's  no  knowing 
when  that  will  be.  London's  a  big  place — the  sub- 


88  PASSERS-BY 

urbs   are   still   more   hextensive — and   as   for   the 
country 

BEATRICE.  (Rises  and  crosses  to  R.  end  of  sofa. 
Interrupting,  as  she  notices  the  ill-effect  PINE'S 
words  have\  on  MARGARET )  Don't  talk  nonsense! 
A  well-dressed  child  with  a  tramp  isn't  likely  to  es- 
cape notice. 

PINE,  (c.)  Pardon  me,  miss,  but  if  I  may  make 
so  bold,  this  Burns  was  dressed  very  respectable. 
He  was  apparelled  in  a  suit  of  my  own — reduced  to 
size. 

BEATRICE.  (Anxious  for  MARGARET,)  Very  well, 
Pine,  that  will  do. 

PINE.  Thank  you,  miss.  (Starts  to  go,  then 
hesitates  and  returns  a  few  paces)  It's  a  consola- 
tion to  those  in  service,  miss,  when  duty  done  is 
recognised. 

BEATRICE.    I'm  sure  it  must  be,  Pine. 

PINE.  Thank  you,  miss.  (Half  goes;  slight 
pause)  Charity  is  a  noble  thing1,  miss,  and  to  see  it 
misdirected  into  unworthy  channels  gives  pain  to 
the  deserving.  (With  a  quick  movement  MARGARET 
lays  her  hand  on  BEATRICE'S  arm  and  gives  her  an 
entreating  look) 

BEATRICE.  I  told  you,  Pine,  that  you  might  go. 
(Speaking  very  firmly) 

PINE.  (Cowed)  Yes,  miss.  (Exit  PINE  R.2E., 
closing  the  door  after  him) 

BEATRICE.     Idiot!    (The  telephone  bell  rings) 

MARGARET.  (Springing  up)  That  must  be  Peter! 

BEATRICE.  (Crosses  to  telephone,  takes  receiver) 
Hello!  (She  listens)  No,  it's  only  Aunt  Amelia. 
C  MARGARET,  disappointed,  walks  to  the  window  up 
L.  BEATRICE  speaks  into  telephone)  Yes,  Aunt 
Amelia,  it's  me — I  mean  it's  I.  No,  the  child  hasn't 
been  brought  back  yet.  (To  MARGARET )  What  did 
I  tell  you? — but  we're  not  worrying.  We  have 
every  faith  in  Peter.  (Listening)  Yes,  and,  as  you 


PASSERS-BY  89 

say,  in  the  police.  Everything  will  be  all  right. 
(Listens)  Can't  you  ?  I'm  sorry.  Try  counting  a 
flock  of  sheep  going  through  a  gate.  (Listens) 
No,  Auntie  dear,  there's  not  the  faintest  use  in 
sending  for  me.  Here  I  stay  until  Peter  comes 
back.  Meanwhile  and  always  I  remain,  your  ever 
loving  niece  Beatrice.  (Puts  down  receiver.  MAR- 
GARET smiles)  Ah,  I've  made  you  smile  at  last! 
( She  motions  to  MARGARET  to  chair  L.C.  MARGARET 
comes  to  chair  and  sits.  BEATRICE  crosses  to  fire- 
place and  pushes  logs  on  fire  with  her  foot.  Then 
she  sits  on  piano  stool,  which  has  been  left  below 
writing-table  L.C.)  And  now  that  you're  being  very 
good  I'll  let  you  talk  about  your  boy.  Of  course 
he's  beautiful. 

MARGARET.    People  say  he  is 

BEATRICE.     Is  there  a  picture  of  him  here? 

MARGARET.  I  have  one.  (She  puts  her  hand  to 
her  locket) 

BEATRICE.  May  I  see  it?  ("MARGARET  takes  off 
locket  and  chain.  She  is  about  to  hand  them  to 
BEATRICE — but  suddenly  stops) 

MARGARET.     There  is  another  picture  here. 

BEATRICE.  (After  a  momentary  pause)  Well,  of 
course  it  is  one  of  Peter.  (The  two  girls  look 
bravely  at  each  other) 

MARGARET.    Yes. 

BEATRICE.  (In  a  soft  voice  and  holding  out  her 
hand  for  the  locket)  That's  just  as  it  should  be. 

MARGARET.  (Impulsively  she  grasps  BEATRICE'S 
hand)  I — I  can't  tell  you  how  sweet  and  generous 
I  think  you  are  to  me. 

BEATRICE.  (Rises  and  crosses  up  c.  a  little)  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  ? 

MARGARET.  Because  I,  unconsciously,  have 
brought  a  shadow  into  your  life. 

BEATRICE.  (Crosses  up  c.  and  round  top  of  writ- 
ing-table and  then  down  to  lamp  on  table)  No,  no 


90  PASSERS-BY 

— believe  me.  For  a  moment  I  had  a  shock— I  ad- 
mit that,  though  I  tried  hard  not  to  show  it.  It  was 
the  fault  of  a  foolish,  ignorant  bringing-up  such  as 
most  girls  have.  But  indeed  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. What  has  Peter's  past  or  your  past  to  do 
with  me?  Who  am  I  to  judge?  (At  this  moment 
she  has  opened  the  locket;  her  tone  entirely  changes. 
Switches  on  lamp,  after  examining  locket,  switches 
off  light  again)  Oh,  but  what  a  beautiful 
child! 

MARGARET.  (Delighted)  Do  you  think  so? 
Really? 

BEATRICE.  Rather!  He's  simply  ripping.  I  want 
to  ask  you  something — so  much. 

MARGARET.  You  make  me  feel  that  I  would  tell 
you  anything. 

BEATRICE.  (Slowly,  as  she  kneels  on  sofa  facing 
MARGARET,)  When  you  got  your  boy — did  you  feel 
that  you  were  compensated  for  all — for  everything 
you  had  suffered?  (Pause) 

MARGARET.  (Looking  straight  in  front  of  her) 
I'll  tell  you,  because  it  was  a  wonderful  thing — a 
sort  of  miracle.  I  had  had  a  terrible  time — and  I 
exaggerated  my  wrongs  and  felt  that  I  was  for- 
saken by  God  and  man.  Then  I  lay  for  a  time  in 
a  hospital  and  hoped  I  should  die.  In  my  soul  there 
was  nothing  but  bitterness  and  revolt.  I  was  a 
revolutionary — a  shrieking  sister,  and  on  the  white 
ceiling  of  the  little  room  I  saw  devils.  Then  came 
a  climax  of  suffering — and  in  the  last  conscious  mo- 
ment I  thought  I  was  dying. 

BEATRICE.     And  then? 

MARGARET.  (With  a  deep  sigh)  Then  Little 
Peter  woke  me  up.  Oh,  the  ecstasy  of  it!  I 
wouldn't  have  changed  places  with  any  woman  in 
the  world.  Do  you  know  I  actually  laughed  aloud 
while  the  child  slept  against  my  breast. 

BEATRICE.    (Perplexed)    Why  did  you  laugh  ? 


l 


PASSERS-BY  91 

MARGARET.  To  think  that  I  had  ever  dreamed 
of  any  ambition  but  simply  to  be  a  mother. 

BEATRICE.  (Looking  at  the  picture  in  locket) 
Perhaps  any  woman  who  was  the  mother  of  such 
a  beautiful  boy  would  feel  like  that.  I  wonder? 
(Face  front.  Pause  as  shef  looks  into  the  locket) 
There's  a  good  deal  of  likeness,  don't  you  think? 

MARGARET.     Oh,  yes. 

BEATRICE.  (Glancing  at  MARGARET  unseen  by 
her)  Only  the  child  is  much  handsomer  than  the 
man. 

MARGARET.  (Gently)  Perhaps  that's  only  be- 
cause he's  at  the  pretty  age. 

BEATRICE.     His  features  are  much  more  regular. 

MARGARET.     Do  you  think  so? 

BEATRICE.  And  there's  more  sensibility — and — 
and  a  sort  of  added  refinement  in  his  face. 

MARGARET.  But  surely  you  would  call  Peter 

(She  stops) 

BEATRICE.  What?  Handsome?  (Gets  off  sofa 
and  lays  locket  on  writing-table) 

MARGARET.  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I 
am  no  judge. 

BEATRICE.  Perhaps  you  mean  attractive.  (Crosses 
round  top  of  table.  Slight  pause)  Do  you  think 
Peter  very  attractive? 

MARGARET.     (Confused)     I — really 

BEATRICE.  (Impulsively)  Don't  answer.  I'm  a 
mean  pig.  Of  course  Peter  is  as  attractive  as  a  man 
has  any  right  to  be.  (Sits  on  edge  of  table  facing 
MARGARET )  If  you  weren't  such  a  splendid  primi- 
tive creature  you'd  have  known  I  was  setting  a  trap 
for  you. 

MARGARET.    (Surprised)    Setting  a  trap  for  me  ? 

BEATRICE.  Yes — to  find  out  if — if  you  love  Peter 
still. 

MARGARET.  (Rising  and  draiving  away  Rj  Miss 
Dainton,  I 


92  PASSERS-BY 

BEATRICE.  (Sitting  on  table)  Do  you?  (Slight 
pause)  Of  course  you  needn't  tell  me  unless  you 
wish  to. 

MARGARET,  (n.c.)  I'd  like  to  tell  you — but — I 
— I  can't. 

BEATRICE.  (Rises  and  goes  to  MARGARET,)  What 
has  Peter  done  that  you  should  have  ceased  to  love 
him? 

MARGARET.     He  has  ceased  to  love  me. 

BEATRICE.     How  do  you  know? 

MARGARET.  (Rapidly)  He's  engaged  to  you — 
you  are  suited  to  each  other.  I  am  perfectly  con- 
tent. (Goes  down  to  below  table,  then  up  R.  to 
piano)  It  takes  more  than  I  have  gone  through  to 
knock  the  foolish  pride  out  of  a  stupid  woman. 
Please  don't  say  any  more  about  it. 

BEATRICE.  (Crosses  down  L.  a  little.  Reflec- 
tively) Why  does  any  one  love  any  one,  I  wonder? 
Why  do  you  love  your  boy  outside  your  feelings  as 
a  mother? 

MARGARET.  (Smiling.  Comes  down  R.cJ  Be- 
cause he's  so  young — and  so  old — and  so  foolish  and 
so  wise — and  because  he's  such  a  lamb — such  an 

absolute  duck !    And  because (Three  toots  of 

a  motor  horn  are  heard.  BEATRICE  rushes  to  the 
window.  MARGARET  clutches  the  back  of  chair  R.C. 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  covers  her  mouth 
to  prevent  herself  crying  out) 

BEATRICE.  (In  great  excitement,  looking  out 
through  the  window)  Yes,  there  they  are !  There 
they  are !  And  there's  your  child,  asleep  in  Peter's 
arms. 

MARGARET.  (Murmuring  and  half -fainting ) 
Thank  God !  Oh,  thank  God ! 

BEATRICE.  (Crosses  down  L.  of  MARGARET ) 
There,  there,  my  dear — don't  faint  after  being  so 
splendid.  Think  of  it !  Your  beloved  child  asleep 
in  Peter's  arms!  And  Peter  is  engaged  to  me! 


PASSERS-BY  93 

And  you  are  perfectly  content !  Well,  I'll  be  blowed 
if  I  am!  (They  face  each  other)  Oh,  you  glorious 
liar!  (The  noise  of  outer  door  and  many  footsteps 
is  heard.  Crosses  R.  to  door  R.IE.)  'Don't  let  Peter 
see  how  pale  your  cheeks  are !  (Opens  door.  MAR- 
GARET, c.,  draws  herself  up  by  an  effort  of  will  and 
recovers  her  strength.  BEATRICE  has  left  the  win- 
dows curtains  half-drawn,  and  till  the  end  of  the 
play  the  grey  morning  light  slowly  grows  outside. 
Enter  WAVERTON  carrying  LITTLE  PETER  in  his 
arms.  LITTLE  PETER  is  wrapped  in  the  overcoat 
WAVERTON  gave  to  BURNS  and  is  asleep.  The 
speech  and  movements  of  them  all  just  here  should 
be  very  gentle.  WAVERTON  goes  to  MARGARET, 
'meeting  her  c.  She  takes  the  child  gently  from 
his  arms) 

MARGARET.  (Very  simply)  Thank  you,  Peter. 
(She  carries  LITTLE  PETER  to  the  couch  L.  and  lays 
him  down.  WAVERTON  stands  watching  her  as  she 
arranges  a  cushion  under  the  child's  head.  BEA- 
TRICE goes  to  WAVERTON ) 

BEATRICE.  (Her  hand  on  PETER'S  shoulder) 
Peter,  dear  old  thing — I'm  so  glad. 

WAVERTON.  ("L.C.,  grasps  both  her  hands)  You 
stuck  to  your  post — I  knew  you  would.  ("BEATRICE 
goes  to  the  back  of  the  couch  and  bends  over  to  look 
at  the  child.  At  a  gesture  from  WAVERTON,  PINE 
enters  R.IE.  and  comes  to  him  and  takes  his  over- 
coat) Bring  Nighty  and  Burns  here. 

PINE.  Yes,  sir.  (Slight  hesitation)  Did  you 
wish  me  to  communicate  with  the  police,  sir? 

WAVERTON.  No.  Word  has  been  sent  that  the 
child  is  found. 

PINE.     I  mean  in  respect  to  the  man  Burns,  sir. 

WAVERTON.  (Firmly — giving  PINE  a  look)  Do 
what  I've  told  you.  (WAVERTON  goes  up  R.  to  side- 
board and  mires  a  whisky  and  soda,  which  he 
drinks) 


94  PASSERS-BY 

PINE.     Certainly,  sir.    (Exit  PINE  R.U.E.J 
BEATRICE.      (Softly   to    MARGARET,)      Yes,   he's 
wonderful.     I  understand  better  now,  and  perhaps 

if  he  were  my  own — my  very  own There's 

something  in  that,  isn't  there? 

MARGARET.  (Smiling)  Oh  yes,  indeed,  there's  a 
great  deal,  in  that.  Would  you  give  me  the  rug? 
(BEATRICE  motions  to  WAVERTON,  who  comes  down 
L.C.  and  hands  her  the  rug,  which  is  back  of  chair 
L.C.  MARGARET  lifts  LITTLE  PETER  out  of  the  coat, 
which  BEATRICE  takes  away,  replacing  it  on  the  sofa 
with  the  rug.  BEATRICE  throws  BURNS'  coat  on 
chair  up  L.  MARGARET  lays  LITTLE  PETER  on  the 
rug  and  throzvs  the  ends  over  him.  BEATRICE  is 
behind  sofa.  WAVERTON  by  table  L.c.J 

(Enter  PINE,  opening  the  door  for  BURNS  and 
NIGHTY.  PINE  remains  a  little  behind  the 
others.  Leave  door  open.  NIGHTY  goes  to 
WAVERTON,  L.C.J 

WAVERTON.    You  needn't  go,  Pine. 
PINE.    (Who  had  no  intention  of  going)    Thank 
you,  sir. 

(BURNS  is  standing  below  table  R.C.,  twisting  his 
cap  in  his  hands.) 

WAVERTON.  (NIGHTY  is  R.  of  WAVERTON )  Well, 
Nighty,  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  wisdom.  What's 
to  be  done  with  Burns?  Pine  is  for  calling  in  the 
police —  (BURNS  gives  PINE  a  look)  but  I  don't 
think  Pine  has  ever  suffered,  and  I  distrust  the 
judgment  of  those  who  have  never  suffered. 

(They  all  speak  in  slightly  lowered  tones,  as  the 
child  is  asleep.) 

NIGHTY.  I  never  call  in  the  police  myself,  guv'- 
nor,  till  I've  called  in  everybody  else.  (Crosses  to 
BURNSJ  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself, 


PASSERS-BY  95 

Burns?  What  made  you  up  an'  run  off  with  the 
young  gent?  (Pause — BURNS  is  obstinately  silent. 
NIGHTY  crosses  L.  ;  a  little  aside  to  WAVERTON) 
Never  so  much  as  opened  'is  mouth  in  the  motor- 
car. 

WAVERTON.  Is  there  anything  at  all  to  be  done 
with  him,  do  you  think,  Nighty  ? 

NIGHTY.  'Fraid  not,  guv'nor — not  enough  air, 
light,  and  water  in  hinfancy.  Excuse  me,  but  that's 
a  'obby  o'  mine.  An'  then  the  breeding  was  all 
wrong.  (Crosses  round  top  of  table  L.  and  down 
to  behind  WAVERTON )  Best  let  'im  go  back  to  'is 
own  class.  (Goes  up  L.  a  little) 

WAVERTON.    What  do  you  say,  Bee? 

BEATRICE.  (Behind  writing-table)  I  can't  help 
you,  Peter,  for  I'm  one  of  those  who  have  never 
suffered. 

WAVERTON.  (Looking  at  her  keenly)  You  are 
sure? 

BEATRICE.  (Meeting  his  eyes  firmly)  Quite 
sure,  Peter.  (Goes  down  to  fireplace) 

WAVERTON.  And  you,  Margaret — you  Haven't 
the  same  excuse 

MARGARET.  I'm  too  happy  to  sit  in  judgment  on 
any  one,  and  I  have  to  thank  Mr.  Burns  for  lend- 
ing my  little  boy  his  overcoat. 

(WAVERTON    and    NIGHTY    look    at    each    other, 
smiling) 

PINE.  (Crosses  c.  above  table  R.  to  WAVERTON ) 
Begging  pardon  for  the  liberty,  sir,  but  there  are 
institootions  for  people  like  this  poor  chap,  pro- 
vided for  out  of  the  rates. 

WAVERTON.    That  will  do,  Pine. 

PINE.    Excuse  me,  sir,  but 

WAVERTON.  That  will  do.  I  don't  think  you  can 
help  us  much.  I'll  ring  when  I  want  you.  Make 
some  coffee. 


96  PASSERS-BY 

PINE.  (Looking  rather  outraged)  Yes,  sir.  (He 
walks  to  the  door  R.2E.  with  much  dignity.  Exit 
PINE; 

BEATRICE.    Where  did  they  go  to,  Peter? 

WAVERTON.  (Sitting  edge  of  table  L.cJ  I  gathered 
from  Little  Peter  before  he  fell  asleep  in  my  arms 
that  they  had  promised  themselves  a  rabbit  hunt. 

BEATRICE.  (By  fireplace)  A  rabbit  hunt  ?  How 
fascinating ! 

NIGHTY.    (UpL.)    Couple  of  kids !    (He  smiles) 

WAVERTON.  I  got  on  their  track  in  Hammer- 
smith, where  they  took  the  tram. 

NIGHTY.     I  was  always  against  them  trams! 

MARGARET.    And  where  did  you  find  them? 

WAVERTON.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  Hounslow. 
They  were  in  a  field  against  a  hayrick.  Nighty 
spied  them  with  the  assistance  of  a  motor  lamp. 
(Crosses  round  top  of  table  to  behind  same) 

NIGHTY.  (Coming  down  L.  a  little)  The  young 
gentleman  was  sleeping  wrapped  up  in  the  overcoat 
with  hay  all  round  him.  He  was  as  snug  as  a  bug 
in  a  rug,  ma'am. 

(MARGARET  and  BEATRICE  laugh  at  this,  and,  slight- 
ly confused,  NIGHTY  retires  up  L.,  grinning 
foolishly) 

MARGARET.    (To  WAVERTON,)    And  Mr.  Burns? 

WAVERTON.  He  was  sitting  up  against  the  hay- 
rick, also  sleeping. 

BURNS.  (Suddenly  breaking  his  long  silence)  I 
wasn't  sleepin'.  I  was  thinkin'. 

BEATRICE  AND  MARGARET.  (Mildly  surprised) 
Thinking ! 

NIGHTY.  (Smiling  indulgently)  Thinking 

(He  looks  at  WAVERTON,  amused  at  the  idea  of 
BURNS  thinking) 

WAVERTON.  Thinking,  Burns?  What  were  you 
thinking  of? 


PASSERS-BY  97 

BURNS.  (With  suppressed  passion,  and  with  the 
laboured  and  painful  eloquence  of  a  man  who  has 
never  spoken  at  such  length  before)  I  was  thinkin' 
why  carn't  people  let  other  people  alone?  You  say 
you  carn't  do  nothin'  with  me.  I  say  this  (Crosses 
L.J  "  'Ooo  arst  ye  to?"  That  gent  there  (pointing 
a  trembling  hand  at  the  door  R.)  'e  started  it.  'E 
fetched  me  'ere  on  my  way  to  the  Embankment, 
w'ere  [where]  I  'ave  a  right  an*  w'en  [when]  I 
think  I've  fun'  kine  friends,  'e  puts  the  barber  on 
me  and  takes  the  little  gent  away  as  if  I  was  a 
dorg.  W'y  couldn't  yer  leave  me  be?  I  wasn't 
beggin' — I  know  the  law  an'  I  'old  by  it — I  was  just 
walkin'  along  same  as  usual — well,  wot  o'  that?  If 
the  passer-by  give  yer  somethin'  becorse  'e's  sorry 
fer  yer,  wot  'arm — that's  wot  I  arst — wot  'arm? 
(Raising  his  voice  slightly) 

MARGARET.    (Gently)    No  harm,  Mr.  Burns. 

WAVERTON.  Perhaps  the  passer-by  is  only  sorry 
for  himself,  Burns. 

NIGHTY.  (A  step  towards  BURNS,  well  up  c.,  ad- 
monishingly  to  BURNS,)  But  what  about  taking 
that  young  child  away? 

BURNS.  ( c.)  Comin'  to  that  wot  I  was  thinkin', 
w'ich  was  that  rabbits  was  on'y  an  excuse  in  an- 
ger, and  I  take  the  young  gent  back  in  the  mornin' 
and  arst  to  be  let  alone.  An'  now  you  got  'im  back 
anyway,  wot  I  say  is  don't  'old  no  meetin's  over  me, 
but  let  me  be.  (Raising  his  voice  passionately) 
That's  wot  I  say— let  me  be ! 

MARGARET.  (Fearful  that  the  noise  will  wake 
LITTLE  PETER,)  Ssh !  Mr.  Burns !  (She  points  to 
the  child) 

(BURNS'  manner  undergoes  an  entire  change.  All 
the  passion  seems  to  die  out  of  him.  His  face 
softens.  He  goes  a  fezv  steps  towards  the  sofa 
• — his  eyes  on  the  child) 


98  PASSERS-BY 

BURNS.  (To  MARGARET,  in  a  hoarse  whisper) 
'E  call  me  Samuel,  'e  did! — That's  what  'e  called 
me.  (He  goes  c.)  Samuel!  (He  puts  on  his  cap, 
tucks  his  hands  into  the  opposite  sleeves  and  walks 
softly  out.  Exit  BURNS  R.IE.  The  people  on  the 
stage  are  motionless  until  the  click  of  the  outer  door 
is  heard.  NIGHTY  and  WAVERTON  exchange  a  look) 

WAVERTON.  (Crossed  up  L.  and  picks  up  BURNS' 
overcoat)  Take  him  his  overcoat,  Nighty.  ( NIGHTY 
takes  overcoat)  And  tell  him (He  hesitates) 

NIGHTY.    Tell  him  what,  guv'nor? 

WAVERTON.  Well,  tell  him  to  give  us  another 
trial — sometime — when  things  are  bad.  (NIGHTY 
goes  R.iE.J 

NIGHTY.  (At  door)  Your  servant,  ladies!  (Bows. 
Exit  NIGHTY,  R.IE.,  shutting  door) 

WAVERTON.  (Going  to  back  of  chair  L.C.  and 
looking  at  the  child)  He's  all  right,  isn't  he? 

MARGARET.  Quite  all  right,  Peter — not  a  bit 
feverish.  (She  is  holding  one  of  LITTLE  PETER'S 
hands) 

WAVERTON.  It's  too  early  to  take  him  home. 
You'd  better  tuck  him  up  in  bed  for  a  while. 

(She  lifts  the  child,  leaving  the  rug  on  the  sofa. 
BEATRICE  crosses  to  L.  door  and  opens  it;  she 
kisses  LITTLE  PETER  as  he  is  carried  out) 

WAVERTON.  Come  back.  (When  MARGARET  is 
at  the  door)  PINE'S  making  coffee.  (Exit  MAR- 
GARET carrying  LITTLE  PETER.  WAVERTON  sits 
in  chair  by  writing-table  and  lights  a  cigarette) 
Bee,  you're  a  brick.  However,  that's  an  old 
story. 

BEATRICE.    (Behind  writing-table)    Rot! 

WAVERTON.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  take  you  home 
now. 

BEATRICE.    I'm  not  going  yet. 

WAVERTON.    It's  nearly  five. 


PASSERS-BY  99 

BEATRICE.  (Takes  cigarette  from  "box  on  table) 
I  often  dance  till  six.  Besides,  I  find  your  domes- 
tic affairs  exceedingly  interesting. 

WAVERTON.  My  dear,  if  I  don't  begin  excusing, 
apologising  and  explaining  you  must  blame  your 
own  superior  understanding. 

BEATRICE.  (Smiling,  crosses  round  top  of  table 
to  c.)  That'll  suit  me,  old  boy — and  all  shall  be 
forgiven  if,  without  the  kind  permission  of  Aunt 
Amelia,  you  will  let  me  smoke  one  cigarette.  (WAV- 
ERTON lights  a  match,  from  which  she  lights  a  cigar- 
ette. Gives  match  back  to  WAVERTON.  She  smokes 
appreciatively  for  a  few  moments,  backs  up  a  few 
steps  and  leans  against  piano)  Peter,  old  dear,  it 
has  been  put  about  by  various  authorities  that  every 
cloud  has  a  silver  lining. 

WAVERTON.    (Gravely)    That  is  so. 

BEATRICE.  Now  your  silver  lining  is  that  I  am 
peacefully  smoking  a  cigarette  instead  of  being  in 
hysterics  on  the  floor. 

WAVERTON.  That's  simply  because  you're  Bea- 
trice and  no  other. 

BEATRICE.  Oh,  well,  perhaps  I'd  better  take  all 
the  praise  you'll  give  me,  dear  old  thing.  It's  a 
great  help.  (Comes  down  c.)  It's  admitted  then 
that  I'm  a  fine  creature.  You're  a  judge  of  fine 
creatures,  Peter.  That's  a  fine  creature  who  just 
carried  your  child  out  of  the  room. 

WAVERTON.    Yes. 

BEATRICE.    Fine  in  a  finer  way  than  I  am. 

WAVERTON.  (Rising,  going  to  her,  and  laying  a 
hand  on  her  shoulder)  Bee,  dear,  I  doubt  if  there 
could  be  a  finer  way. 

BEATRICE.  (R.C.)  Yes — and  she  has  it.  You 
don't  suppose  I've  been  alone  with  her  for  eight  or 
ten  hours  without  turning  her  inside  out? 

WAVERTON.  (Smiling)  No,  I  don't  suppose  that. 
(Goes  down  L.) 


ioo  PASSERS-BY 

BEATRICE.  (Leaning  against  table  R.c.J  Peter, 
old  dear,  you'd  best  prepare  yourself  for  the  worst. 
I'm  going  to  give  you  the  chuck. 

WAVERTON.    Beatrice ! 

BEATRICE.  (Knocking  the  ash  off  her  cigarette 
as  she  goes  to  stool  L.C.)  Not  in  anger — not  in 
pique — not  even  because  it's  much  more  blessed  to 
give  the  chuck  than  to  receive  it. 

WAVERTON.  (Standing  R.  of  sofa,  his  R.  foot  on 
stool)  My  dear — my  dear! 

BEATRICE.  Oh,  /  know.  It's  inevitable  anyway! 
(Her  left  hand  is  resting  on  WAVERTON'S  knee) 
You  love  me  all  right — quite  as  well  as  is  neces- 
sary— as  well  perhaps  as  most  men  love  the  woman 
they  are  going  to  marry — but  you  forget  something 
that  I  haven't  forgotten — you  told  me  when  we  be- 
came engaged  that  you  had  loved  before.  This 
was  the  woman,  wasn't  it  ?  (She  looks  at  him.  He 
nods  his  head)  What  is  between  you  two  is  a  big- 
ger thing  altogether.  It's  just  a  matter  of  Fate. 
She  adores  you — you're  her  God  on  earth.  (He 
shakes  his  head  and  turns  away)  And  you — you 
love  her,  Peter,  you  know  you  do.  (Pause.  She 
takes  his  chin  in  her  left  hand  and  turns  his  face 
so  that  they  face  each  other)  And  I  know  you  dare 
tell  me  the  truth. 

WAVERTON.  (After  a  little  pause,  during  which 
they  look  into  each  other's  eyes)  Yes — I  love 
her. 

BEATRICE.  You  dear,  brave  old  thing!  I  knew 
I  could  trust  you.  Throw  this  away  for  me.  (He 
takes  the  stump  of  her  cigarette  and  throws  it  in 
the  fireplace.  She  goes  up  to  c.  to  hide  her  emo- 
tion, then  to  the  writing-table  and  sits  on  edge — 
her  left  foot  on  stool)  And  don't  you  run  away 
with  the  "idea  that  I  don't  love  you,  too.  I  do.  I 
love  you  because  you  are  so  young  and  so  old,  and 
so  foolish,  and  so  wise.  But  there's  nothing  in- 


PASSERS-BY  101 

evitable  about  it,  and  in  any  case  we're  quite  un- 
suited  to  each  other. 

WAVERTON.  (Down  L.,  protesting)  Oh,  come, 
my  dear! 

BEATRICE.  Absolutely !  Our  tastes  are  quite  un- 
like. You  don't  take  any  interest  in  Society,  and 
gossip,  and  scandal,  but  it  all  amuses  me  vastly.  I 
always  have  an  awful  good  time,  and  the  Duchess's 
love  affairs  and  what  she  will  do  now  are  matters 
of  thrilling  interest  to  me. 

WAVERTON.  (Sits  R.  arm  of  sofa)  Bee,  Bee, 
you're  slandering  yourself. 

BEATRICE.  Not  a  bit !  And  when  /  marry  it  will 
be  a  man  who  shares  my  tastes;  a  clean,  well-built 
young  fellow  who  dances  well,  wears  nice  ties,  and 
is  a  perfect  devil  on  the  golf  links.  I  know  dozens 
of  'em !  I  shall  marry  a  man  I  can  make  something 
out  of — good  raw  material.  I  could  never  have 
made  anything  out  of  you,  Peter,  you're  beyond  me, 
old  dear.  (She  gathers  the  rug,  crosses  up  c.) 
There's  your  real  mate!  Your  Margaret!  (She 
points  L.  then  goes  up  R.) 

WAVERTON.  (Sits  on  stool,  L.cJ  Bee,  old  dear, 
you  are  trying  to  marry  me  to  a  woman  who  is 
engaged  to  another  man.  ( BEATRICE  indulges  in  a 
rippling  little  laugh)  What's  the  matter? 

BEATRICE.  Robinson  you  mean — Henry  Robin- 
son! (She  laughs  again,  the  rug  trailing  over  her 
arm) 

WAVERTON.     I  believe  that  is  the  name. 

BEATRICE.  (Coming  a  little  down  c.)  I  wouldn't 
worry  about  Harry  if  I  were  you. 

WAVERTON.     Why  not? 

BEATRICE.  (Coming  back  to  him)  Have  you 
ever  seen  him? 

WAVERTON.     No,  praise  God ! 

BEATRICE.  Have  you  ever  heard  ru's  voice — even 
on  the  telephone?  Have  you  ever  seen  his  photo- 


102  PASSERS-BY 

graph,  even  in  a  snapshot?  (She  bends  closer  to 
him  and  lowers  her  voice)  Do  you  believe  in  him? 
(They  look  at  each  other)  I  don't!  (Back  to 
chair  R.c.j 

WAVERTON.  (Rises  and  goes  to  her,  taking  a 
deep  breath  and  laying  his  hands  on  her  shoulders) 
Do  you  mean  to  say ? 

BEATRICE.     You  may  kiss  my  forehead. 

WAVERTON.  You  dear!  (He  kisses  her.  BEA- 
TRICE goes  to  door  R.2E.) 

WAVERTON.     Where  are  you  going? 

BEATRICE.  (Throws  rug  over  shoulder)  I'm  be- 
ing tactful.  (Opens  door  R.2E.J  Also  I'm  going 
to  have  a  little  snooze  in  the  library.  Henry  Rob- 
inson! Old  Harry!  (A  rippling  laugh,  on  which 
exit  BEATRICE.  Her  laugh  is  still  heard  for  a  few 
moments  after  she  has  shut  the  door) 

(Enter  PINE  R.IE.  with  small  tray  containing  coffee. 
PINE  looks  very  cheerful.  He  places  tray  on 
table  R.) 

PINE.  Coffee,  sir — and  toast!  (Exit  PINE  R.IE. 
WAVERTON  goes  towards  the  fireplace.  On  the  way 
he  finds,  where  BEATRICE  has  left  it,  MARGARET'S 
locket.  He  takes  it  up  and  goes  to  fireplace,  put- 
ting locket  in  his  pocket) 

(Enter  MARGARET,  L.) 

WAVERTON.  Would  you  give  me  a  cup  of  coffee, 
Margaret  ? 

MARGARET.  (Crosses  to  table  R.  and  pours  out 
coffee)  Where  is  Miss  Dainton? 

WAVERTON.  (R.  end  of  sofa  L.)  She's  lying 
down  in  the  library. 

MARGARET.     She's  been  an  angel  to  me. 

WAVERTON.     She  is  an  angel. 


PASSERS-BY  103 

MARGARET.     She  must  be  very  tired. 

WAVERTON.     Not  too  tired  to  chuck  me. 

MARGARET.  (Looking  up,  shocked  and  troubled) 
Chuck  you? 

WAVERTON.  It's  her  word.  It  means  to  release, 
to  repudiate,  to  go  back  on,  to  throw  over — in  fine, 
to  break  an  engagement  with.  (He  conies  down 
and  sits  on  stool  L.C.,  his  back  to  her) 

MARGARET.  (Much  disturbed,  crosses  c.)  Peter 
— she — she  can't  mean  it!  (Then  stands  behind 
him) 

WAVERTON.     Oh,  yes — it's  final. 

MARGARET.  Was  it — was  it — through  any  fault 
of  mine? 

WAVERTON.  Oh,  dear  no!  She  discovered  we 
are  unsuited.  She's  perfectly  right.  The  truth  is 
I'm  not  good  enough  for  her.  I'm  rather  by  way  of 
being  generally  out  of  it,  Margaret — and  I  don't 
think  I'm  very  happy. 

MARGARET.  (Suffering  for  him,  in  a  low  voice) 
Not  happy !  Peter !  (She  stretches  out  her  hands, 
longing  to  place  them  on  his  head) 

WAVERTON.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  human  sort  of 
person. 

MARGARET.  (To  herself — her  hands  at  her 
breast)  Oh,  God ! 

WAVERTON.  However,  everybody  else  is  happy. 
Beatrice  is  on  the  track  of  a  fine  golfer  and  you 
have  your  Henry  Thingamebob.  (He  rises.  He 
raises  his  voice  and  puts  a  fictitious  courage  into  it) 
Here's  your  locket,  my  dear.  (Hands  MARGARET 
locket,  which  she  opens,  his  back  is  almost  turned 
to  her.  She  puts  locket  in  his  hand.  He  slowly 
looks  at  it  and  an  expression  of  great  relief  and 
tenderness  comes  into  his  face )  Why — why  didn't 
you  let  me  see  before  ? 

MARGARET.  My  wretched  pride.  I  didn't  think 
you  wanted  me,  PeterJ 


104  PASSERS-BY 

WAVERTON.  (Falteringly)  And — and — your 
Mr.  Robinson? 

MARGARET.  Oh,  Peter,  I'm  an  awful  liar  and  a 
wicked  woman !  There  was  never  any  Henry  Rob- 
inson. He  was  simply  an  invention.  You  wronged 
me  in  believing  me — in  thinking  it  possible  that  any 
other  man  could  ever  enter  my  life !  When  I  gave 
myself  to  you,  it  was  for  ever  and  ever — whether 
you  cared  or  not — whether  you  loved  me  or  not — 
whether  you  lived  or  died.  ( WAVERTON,  overcome, 
sinks  on  chair  R.  of  desk)  Oh  Peter !  How  could 
you  doubt  me?  (She  kneels  at  his  feet)  Why,  I 
don't  think  I  know  another  man  in  the  world  even 
by  sight! 

WAVERTON.  Margaret — my  love!  Margaret! 
(He  takes  her  closely  in  his  arms) 

SLOW   CURTAIN. 


The  Touch-Down 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marion  Short.  8  males,  6  females,  but 
any  number  of  characters  can  be  introduced  in  the  ensembles.  Cos- 
tumes modern.  One  interior  scene  throughout  the  play.  Time,  2% 
hours. 

This  play,  written  for  the  use  of  clever  amateurs,  is  the  story  of 
Jife  in  Siddell,  a  Pennsylvania  co-educational  college.  It  deals  with 
the  vicissitudes  and  final  triumph  of  the  Siddell  Football  Eleven,  and 
the  humorous  and  dramatic  incidents  connected  therewith. 

"The  Touch-Down"  has  the  true  varsity  atmosphere,  college  songs 
are  sung,  and  the  piece  is  lively  and  entertaining  throughout.  High 
schools  will  make  no  mistake  in  producing  this  play.  We  strong!; 
recommend  it  as  a  high-class  and  well-written  comedy. 

Price,  30  Cents. 

Hurry,  Hurry,  Hurry 

A  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  LeRoy  Arnold.  5  males,  4  females^ 
One  interior  scene.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2J4  hours. 

The  story  is  based  on  the  will  of  an  eccentric  aunt.  It  stipulates 
that  her  pretty  niece  must  be  affianced  before  she  is  twenty-one,  and 
married  to  her  fiance  within  a  year,  if  she  is  to  get  her  spinstef 
relative's  million.  Father  has  nice  notions  of  honor  and  fails  to  tell 
daughter  about  the  will,  so  that  she  may  make  her  choice  untram- 
meled  by  any  other  consideration  than  that  of  true  love.  The  action 
all  takes  place  in  the  evening  the  midnight  of  which  will  see  her 
reach  twenty-one.  Time  is  therefore  short,  and  it  is  hurry,  hurry, 
hurry,  if  she  is  to  become  engaged  and  thus  save  her  father  froni 
impending  bankruptcy. 

The  situations  are  intrinsically  funny  and  the  dialogue  is  sprightly. 
The  characters  are  natural  and  unaffected  and  the  action  moves  with, 
a  snap  such  as  should  be  expected  from  its  title.  Price,  30  Cent* 

The  Varsity  Coach 

A  three-act  play  of  college  life,  by  Marion  Short,  specially  adapted 
to  performance  by  amateurs  or  high  school  students.  5  males  6 
females,  but  any  number  of  boys  and  girls  may  be  introduced  in  the 
action  of  the  play.  Two  settings  necessary,  a  college  boy's  room  and 
the  university  campus.  Time,  about  2  hours. 

Like  many  another  college  boy,  "Bob"  Selby,  an  all-round  popular 
college  man,  becomes  possessed  of  the  idea  that  athletic  prowess  is 
more  to  be  desired  than  scholarship.  He  is  surprised  in  the  midst  ox 
a  "spread"  in  his  room  in  Regatta  week  by  a  visit  from  his  aunt 
who  is  putting  him  through  college.  Aunt  Serena,  "a  lady  of  the  old 
school  and  the  dearest  little  woman  in  the  whole  world.'*  has  hastened 
to  make  this  visit  to  her  adored  nephew  under  the  mistaken  impression 
that  he  is  about  to  receive  the  Fellowes  prize  for  scholarship.  Her 
grief  and  chagrin  when  she  learns  that  instead  of  the  prize  Robert 
has  received  "a  pink  card,"  which  is  equivalent  to  suspension  for  poor 
scholarship,  gives  a  touch  of  pathos  to  an  otherwise  jolly  comedy  of 
college  life.  How  the  repentant  Robert  more  than  redeems  himself, 
carries  off  honors  at  the  last,  and  in  the  end  wins  Ruth,  the  faithful 
little  sweetheart  of  the  "Prom"  and  the  classroom,  makes  a  story  of 
dramatic  interest  and  brings  out  very  clearly  certain  phases  of  modern 
college  life.  There  are  several  01 1  ^r. unities  for  the  introduction  of 
college  songs  and  "stunts."  Price,  30  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

Mitf   and  Explicit   Descriative  Catalan  Mailed   Free  en  Riouest 


The  Return  of  Hi  Jinks 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marion  Short,  author  of  "The  Varsity 
Coach,"  "The  Touch-Down,"  etc.  6  males,  8  females.  Costumes 
toodern.  One  interior  scene. 

This  comedy  is  founded  upon  and  elaborated  from  a  farce  comedy 
in  two  acts  written  by  J.  H.  Horta,  and  originally  produced  at  Tuft's 
College. 

Hiram  Poynter  Jinks,  a  Junior  in  Hoosic  College  (Willie  Collier 
type),  and  a  young  moving  picture  actress  (Mary  Pickford  type),  are 
the  leading  characters  in  this  lively,  modern  farce. 

Thomas  Hodge,  a  Senior,  envious  of  the  popularity  of  Jinks,  wishes 
to  think  up  a  scheme  to  throw  ridicule  upon  him  during  a  visit  of 
the  Hoosic  Glee  Club  to  Jinks's  home  town.  Jinks  has  obligingly  acted 
as  a  one-day  substitute  in  a  moving  picture  play,  in  which  there  is  a 
fire  scene,  and  this  gives  Hodge  his  cue.  He  sends  what  seems  to 
be  a  bona  fide  account  of  Jink's  heroism  at  a  Hoosic  fire  to  Jink's 
home  paper.  Instead  9f  repudiating  his  laurels  as  expected,  Jinks 
decides  to  take  a  flyer  in  fame,  confirms  the  fake  story,  confesses  to 
being  a  hero  and  is  adoredi  by  all  the  girls,  to  the  chagrin  and  dis« 
comfiture  of  Hodge.  Of  course,  the  truth  comes  out  at  last,  but 
Jinks  is  not  hurt  thereby,  and  his  romance  with  Mimi  Mayflower 
comes  to  a  successful  termination. 

This  is  a  great  comedy  for  amateurs.  It  is  full  of  funny  situations 
and  is  sure  to  please.  Price,  30  Cents. 


J 


une 

A  most  successful  comedy-drama  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran, 
avithor  of  "The  New  Co-Ed,"  "Tempest  and  Sunshine,"  "Dorothy's 
Neighbors,"  etc.  4  males,  8  females.  One  interior  scene.  Costumes 
modern.  Plays  2J4  hours. 

This  play  has  a  very  interesting  group  of  young  people.  June  is 
an  appealing  little  figure,  an  orphan  living  with  her  aunt.  There  are 
a  number  of  delightful,  life-like  characters:  the  sorely  tried  likeable 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  the  amusing,  haughty  Miss  Banks  of  the  glove  depart- 
ment, the  lively  Tilly  and  Milly,  who  work  in  the  store,  and  ambitious 
Snoozer;  Mrs.  Hopkins's  only  son,  who  aspires  to  be  President  of  the 
United  States,  but  finds  his  real  sphere  is  running  the  local  trolley 
ear.  The  play  is  simplicity  itself  in  the  telling  of  an  every-day  story, 
and  the  scenic  requirements  call  for  only  one  set,  a  room  in  the 
boarding  house  of  Mrs.  Hopkins,  while  an  opportunity  is  afforded  to 
introduce  any  number  of  extra  characters.  Musical  numbers  may  be 
introduced,  if  desired.  Price,  30  Cents. 

Tempest  and  Sunshine 

A  comedy  drama  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran.  5  males  and  3 
females.  One  exterior  and  three  interior  scenes.  Plays  about  2  hours. 

Every  school  girl  has  revelled  in  the  sweet  simplicity  and  gentle~ 
ness  of  the  characters  interwoven  in  the  charms  that  Mary  J.  Holmea 
commands  in  her  story  of  "Tempest  and  Sunshine."  We  can  strongly 
recommend  this  play  as  one  of  the  best  plays  for  high  school  pro- 
duction published  in  recent  years.  Price,  30  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

tfew  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free   BO  Request 


JUST  PUBLISHED 

Nothing  But  the  Truth 

A  Farcical  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By 

James  Montgomery 
Cast  of  Characters 

Bob  Bennett 

B.  M.  Ralston 

Clarence  Van  Dusen 

Bishop  Doran 

Dick  Donnelly 

Gwen 

Mrs.  Ralston 

Ethel 

Mable 

Sable 

Martha 

SCENES 

ACT  1.    A  Broker's  Office 

ACT  2.     Parlor  of  a  Country  Home 

ACT  3.  

TIME:    The  Present 

"Nothing-  But  the  Truth"  is  built  upon  the  simple  idea 
of  its  hero  speaking  nothing  but  the  absolute  truth  for  a. 
stated  period.  He  bets  a  friend  ten  thousand  dollars 
that  he  can  do  it,  and  boldly  tackles  truth  to  win  the 
money.  For  a  very  short  time  the  task  is  placidly  easy, 
but  Truth  routs  out  old  man  Trouble  and  then  things  be- 
gin to  happen.  Trouble  doesn't  seem  very  large  and 
aggressive  when  he  first  pokes  his  nose  into  the  noble 
resolve  of  our  hero,  but  he  grows  rapidly  and  soon  we 
see  our  dealer  in  truth  disrupting  the  domestic  relations 
of  his  partner.  In  fact,  Trouble  works  overtime,  and 
reputations  that  have  been  unblemished  are  smirched. 
Situations  that  are  absurd  and  complications  almost 
knotted,  pile  up,  all  credited  to  Truth,  and  the  result  of 
the  wager  to  foster  and  cherish  that  great  virtue  from 
the  lips  of  the  man  who  has  espoused  the  cause  of  truth 
to  win  a  wager. 

It  is  a  novel  idea  and  so  well  has  it  been  worked  out 
that  an  audience  is  kept  in  throes  of  laughter  at  the 
seemingly  impossible  task  to  untangle  snarls  into  which 
our  hero  has  involved  all  those  he  comes  into  contact 
With.  It  is  a  clean  bright  farce  of  well  drawn  character* 
and  was  built  for  laughing  purposes  only. 

William  Collier  played  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  for  a 
year  at  the  Longacre  Theatre,  New  York,  and  it  has  been 
on  tour  for  over  two  seasons. 

After  three  years  continuous  success  on  the  profess- 
ional stage  we  are  now  offering  "Nothing  But  the  Truth" 
for  amateur  production.  It  is  one  of  the  funniest  andl 
brightest  farces  ever  written,  and  it  is  admirably  suite* 
to  amateur  production. 

PRICE  60  CENTS 


CHRISTOPHER  JUNIOR 

A  Comedy  in  4  Acts.  By  Madeleine  Lucette  Ryley.  Modern  eo» 
mine.  Time,  2£  hours.  Three  interior  scenes;  8  males,  4  females, 
Christopher  Jedbury,  Jr.,  having  accidentally  placed  himself  in  ac 
onfortunate  position  with  a  lady  in  the  West  Indies,  is  forced  to 
marry  her  without  seeing  her.  He  returns  to  England.  His  fathei 
finds  out  about  the  marriage,  quarrels  with  him,  and  turns  him  out, 
fedbury,  Jr.,  goes  to  India  as  a  clerk  in  his  father's  office,  thei-e 
discovers  defalcations  by  the  manager,  and  falls  in  love  with  5)ora 
fledway.  He  is  reconciled  to  his  father,  and  Dora  turns  out  to  be 
''A3  wife.  Highly  recommended  for  amateurs- 
Price,  60  Cents. 


MICE  AND  MEN 

A  Romantic  Comedy.  Four  Acts.  By  Madeleine  Lucette  RylcJ 
Costume  about  1786.  Time,  2  hours,  30  minutes.  Three  interioit 
one  exterior  scene;  7  males,  5  females.  Mark  Embury,  a  man  of  ovef 
forty,  is  of  opinion  that  the  perfect  wife  must  be  educated  from  * 
«tate  of  ignorance  and  simplicity  to  the  ideal  of  the  man  she  is  about 
to  marry.  He  accordingly  proceeds  to  impart  his  views  to  a  girl 
fresh  from  the  Foundling.  His  young  nephew  comes  on  the  scene, 
and  Embury  realizes  that  nature  intended  the  young  to  mate  with 
the  young.  This  beautiful  costume  comedy  can  be  played  by  all 
females,  and  is  highly  recommended  for  use  by  girls'  schools  and 
colleges.  This  play  was  originally  produced  by  Mr.  Charles  Froh- 
with  Miss  Annie  Russell  in  the  leading  role. 

Price,  60  Cents. 


SNUG  LITTLE  KINGDOM 

A  Comedy  in  3  Acts.  By  Mark  Ambient.  Modern  costume 
Time,  2£  hoars.  One  interior  scene  throughout;  3  males,  4  females, 
Bernard  Gray,  a  composer  of  music,  lives  in  a  garret  in  Soho.  Undei 
his  charge  is  a  young  girl  in  the  ballet,  whose  mother  had  died  when 
she  was  young.  Hubert  Gray,  the  brother  of  Bernard,  rescues  9 
wealthy  old  gentleman  from  an  accident,  the  latter  eventually  tur» 
Jng  out  to  be  the  girl's  father, 

Price.  60  Ceott, 


DOROTHY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

A  brand  new  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "The 
New  Co-Ed,"  "Tempest  and  Sunshine,"  and  many  other  successful  plays. 
4  males,  7  females.  The  scenes  are  extremely  easy  to  arrange;  two  plain 
interiors  and  one  exterior,  a  garden,  or,  if  necessary,  the  two  interiors 
will  answer.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2l/2  hours. 

The  story  is  about  vocational  training,  a  subject  now  widely  discussed;  also, 
the  distribution  of  large  wealth. 

Back  of  the  comedy  situation  and  snappy  dialogue  there  is  good  logic  and 
a  sound  moral  in  this  pretty  play,  which  is  worthy  the  attention  of  the  experi- 
enced amateur.  It  is  a  clean,  wholesome  play,  particularly  suited  to  high  school 
production.  Price,  30  Cents. 


MISS  SOMEBODY  ELSE. 

A  modern  play  in  four  acts  by  Marion  Short,  author  of  "The  Touch- 
down," etc.  6  males,  10  females.  Two  interior  scenes.  Costumes  mod- 
ern. Plays  2J4  hours. 

This  delightful  comedy  has  gripping  dramatic  moments,  unusual  character 
types,  a  striking  and  original  plot  and  is  essentially  modern  in  theme  and  treat- 
ment. The  story  concerns  the  adventures  of  Constance  Darcy,  a  multi-million- 
aire's young  daughter.  Constance  embarks  on  a  trip  to  find  a  young  man  who 
had  been  in  her  father's  employ  and  had  stolen  a  large  sum  of  money.  She 
almost  succeeds,  when  suddenly  all  traces  of  the  young  man  are  lost.  At  this 
point  she  meets  some  old  friends  who  are  living  in  almost  want  and,  in  order  to 
assist  them  through  motives  benevolent,  she  determines  to  sink  her  own  aristo- 
cratic personality  in  that  of  a  refined  but  humble  little  Irish  waitress  with  the 
family  that  are  in  want.  She  not  only  carries  her  scheme  to  success  in  assisting 
the  family,  but  finds  romance  and  much  tense  and  lively  adventure  during  the 
period  of  her  incognito,  aside  from  capturing  the  young  man  who  had  defrauded 
her  father.  The  story  is  full  of  bright  comedy  lines  and  dramatic  situations  and 
is  highly  recommended  for  amateur  production.  This  is  one  of  the  best  come- 
dies we  have  ever  offered  with  a  large  number  of  female  characters.  The  dialogue 
is  bright  and  the  play  is  full  of  action  from  start  to  finish;  not  a  dull  moment  in 
it.  This  is  a  great  comedy  for  high  schools  and  colleges,  and  the  wholesome 
story  will  please  the  parents  and  teachers.  W«  strongly  recommend  it. 

Price,  30  Cents. 


PURPLE  AND  FINE  LINEN. 

An  exceptionally  pretty  comedy  of  Puritan  New  England,  in  three 
acts,  by  Amita  B.  Fairgrieve  and  Helena  Miller.  9  male,  5  female  char- 
acters. 

This  is  the  Lend  A  Hand  Smith  College  prize  play.  It  is  an  admirable  play 
for  amateurs,  is  rich  in  character  portrayal  of  varied  types  and  is  not  too  difficult 
while  thoroughly  pleasing.  Price,  30  Cent*. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

i 


THE  REJUVENATION  OF  AUNT  MARY. 

The  famous  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Anne  Warner.  7  males,  6 
aales.  Three  interior  scenes.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

This    is    a    genuinely    funny    comedy    with    splendid    parts    for    "Aunt    Mary " 

,;  ,, h(;r  lively  nephew;   "Lucinda,"  a  New  England   ancient   maid   of  all  work; 

i    etc  chumsJ    the    Girl    "Jack"    loves;    "Joshua,"    Aunt    Mary's    hired 

"Aunt  Mary"^  was  played  by  May  Robson  in  New  York  and  on  tour  for  over 
J-rs,  and  ,  ,  wherever  produce^ We^trongly 

MRS.  BUMSTEAD-LEIGH. 

A  pleasing  comedy,  in  three  acts,  by  Harry  James  Smith,  author  of 
le  Tailor-Made  Man."  6  males,  6  females.  One  interior  scene  Cos- 
ies modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

Mr.    Smith    chose    for1   his    initial    comedy    the    complications    arising    from    the 

-  of  a  social  climber  to  land  herself  in  the  altitude  peopled  by  hyphenated 

neme  permitting  innumerable   complications,   according  to  the   spirit  of 

.writer. 

This   most   successful  comedy  was   toured  for  several   seasons  by  Mrs.   Fiske 

MRS.  TEMPLE'S  TELEGRAM. 

^most  successful  farce  in  three  acts,  by  Frank  Wyatt  and  William 
rns.  5  males,  4  females.  One  interior  scene  stands  throughout  the 
:e  acts.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2l/2  hours. 

'Mrs  Temple's  Telegram';  is  a  sprightly  farce  in  which  there  is  an  abund- 
-I.H  hv^VWall*  a«y  *t  "V.1?  impropriety  or  any  element  of  offence.  As 
pee  to  deceit  '  '  ^  *  ^^  ^  ™  Weave  when  first  we 

?here  is  not  a  dull  moment  in  the  entire  farce,  and  from  the  time  the  curtain 
:  until  it  makes  the  final  drop  the  fun  is  fast  and  furious.  A  vfry  exceptional 

Price,   60  Cents. 

THE  NEW  CO-ED. 

V  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "Tempest  and 
line,  etc.  Characters,  4  males,  7  females,  though  any  number  of 
and  girls  can  be  introduced  in  the  action  of  the  play.  One  interior 
one  exterior  scene,  but  can  be  easily  played  in  one  interior  scene. 

:umes  modern.     Time,  about  2  hours. 


to 


Price,  30  Cents. 
<The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

Sew  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Request 


FRENCH'S 


Standard  Library  Edition 

Includes  Plays  by 

Clyde  Pitch 

William  Gillette 

Augustus  Thomas 

George  Broadhurst 

Edward  E.  Kidder 

Percy  Mac  Kay e 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 

Louis  N.  Parker 

R.  C.  Carton 

Alfred  Sutro 

Richard  Harding  Davis 

Sir  Arthur  W.  Pinero 

Anthony  Hope 

Oscar  Wilde 

Haddon  Chambers 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Cosmo  Gordon  Lennox 

H.  V.  Esmond 

Mark  Swan 

Grace  L.  Furniss 

Marguerite  Merrington 

Hermann  Suderniann 

Rida  Johnson  Young 

Arthur  Law 

Rachel  Crothers 

Martha  Morton 

H.  A.  Du  Souchet 

W.  W.  Jacobs 

Madeleine    Lucette    Ryley 

French's  International  Copyrighted  Edition  con- 
tains plays,  comedies  and  farces  of  international 
reputation;  also  recent  professional  successes  by 
famous  American  and  English  Authors. 
Send  a  four-cent  stamp  for  our  new  catalogue 
describing  thousands  of  plays. 

SAMUEL    FRENCH 

Oldest  Play  Publisher  in  the  World 
28-30  West  38th  Street,       NEW  YORK  CITY 


Booth  Tarkington 
J.  Hartley  Manners 
James  Forbes 
James  Montgomery 
Wm.  C.  de  Mille 
Roi  Cooper  Megrue 
Edward  E.  Rose 
Israel  Zangwill 
Henry  Bernstein 
Harold  Brighouse 
Channing  Pollock 
Harry  Durant 
Winchell  Smith 
Margaret  Mayo 
Edward  Peple 
A.  E.  W.  Mason 
Charles  Klein 
Henry  Arthur  Jones 
A.  E.  Thomas 
Fred.  Ballard 
Cyril  Harcourt 
Carlisle  Moore 
Ernest  Denny 
Laurence  Housman 
Harry  James  Smith 
Edgar  Selwyn 
Augustin  McHugh 
Robert  Housum 
Charles  Kenyon 
C.  M.  S.  McLellan 


YB  74584 


